Little Talks
by etiquette-faux-pas
Summary: "Your name is Jamie Buchanan Barnes. You were the first female sergeant in the 107th. We were friends." "NO!" "You know me." "You're my mission." "Finish it, then. Because I'm with you to the end of the line." How Jamie Barnes stopped being the Winter Soldier, and took up residence in Avengers Tower while recovering her memory, herself, and her best friend. Fem!Bucky, Steve/Bucky.
1. Chapter 1

_Little Talks_

_Summary: __"Your name is Jamie Buchanan Barnes. You were the first female sergeant in the 107th. We were friends. " "NO!" " You know me." "You're my mission." "Finish it, then. Because I'm with you to the end of the line." How Jamie Barnes stopped being the Winter Soldier, and took up residence in Avengers Tower while recovering her memory, herself, and her best friend. __Fem!Bucky, Steve/Bucky pairing. Includes all Avengers, PLUS Loki! (Other pairings include the classic Clintasha and Pepperony, as well as Bruce/Betty, Thor/Jane, and Loki/Darcy.)_

_Category: Hurt/Comfort, Romance_

_Pairings: [Captain America-Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes]_

_Based off of the song, "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men_

**This is a little something I've been DYING to write, as I haven't really seen anyone else doing it. A fem!Bucky/Winter Soldier story, with past Steve/Peggy and obvious mixed feelings. Will include recovering!Bucky, conflicted!Bucky, adjusting!Bucky, and more. This is a shameless attempt to give others my OTP feels. Hope you guys like it! **

**I don't own Marvel. Shumucks to be me.**

_-1. How it began_

When Jamie Barnes moved into Avengers Tower, it was perhaps the biggest upheaval in Avengers history – even over the time when Loki moved in.

"She's unstable," Tony had argued, eyeing the brunette with the long shaggy haircut with no hidden skepticism. "I know she's your friend and all, but I don't know if she's a risk we can take."

"Oh come on, Stark." Natasha Romanoff had spoke up from her position on Tony's couch. "She didn't even try to kill you. Do you hear me complaining?"

"I don't trust her either, Tasha. What if she just snaps?"

"Do you all hide from me because I might become the Other Guy? I don't see you guys kicking me out of the Tower."

"That's because Stark would never let us, Bruce."

"You have already destroyed this dwelling many a time, friend Banner. And was my brother not welcomed into this abode, even after all of his shortcomings? Surely the gravity of his plots and schemes outweighs the petty misdeeds of this mortal woman."

"That's because Odin banished him to Earth, and Fury deemed this Tower the only safe holding place for his sorry hide during his self-proclaimed 'reformation'."

"Yes, thank you for the _kind _summary, _Barton_."

"Simmer down, horny helmet head. The birdie's got a point."

Jamie had hunched her head a little more, hiding behind the fringe of dark hair covering her forehead and a great deal of her face. Steve had placed a warm, strong hand on her lower back, and she'd had to consciously remind herself that she didn't need to whirl and break his arm for it.

She didn't remember any of these people. Not the man with the strange light in his chest, not the dark haired man with the glasses; Not the tall blond man with the oversized mallet nor the man with the slicked back dark hair and piercing green eyes who was apparently his brother, and _definitely_ not the man perched atop the bookshelf with an arrow trained on her forehead. Not even the redhead who had spoken, whom she had apparently met before.

Probably on a mission she'd had taken from her, she realized. A cold feeling settled in her stomach. A memory she'd had wiped away from her mind, like scribbling on a chalkboard deemed too messy to remain there permanently. Like a color on a wall that was painted over, because _someone _didn't like the shade.

"Bucky isn't going to hurt anyone," Steve insisted. Steve. She barely even remembered him, but the memories she'd recovered so far were of a man much smaller than him. A Steve who was several inches shorter than her five foot eight frame, and so much thinner she was afraid to hug him too hard for fear he'd break. Now he stood behind her, a huge mass of muscle towering above her at a good six foot two. Still, his hand was gentle, the way they'd always been.

Jamie wondered how she'd remembered that, when she couldn't even remember why he'd called her 'Bucky'.

"I'm going to be with her as much as possible, helping her to adjust to modern life," Steve explained to the strange group of people. "But it's not going to be easy. I'll need all of your help to see that she's able to remain in a non-hostile, recovery friendly environment."

"I'm sorry, do you live here?" The archer scoffed yet again. "Those are the _last_ words I'd use to describe this place."

"As the resident god of mischief, I'm afraid I must agree," Loki said with the faintest of shrugs. His eyes landed on Jamie. "However, as another who is attempting to recover from a traumatic past" –another scoff from the bookshelf was met with a chilling green glare—"I must say that it isn't the most inappropriate environment for an undertaking such as this."

"See? I _told_ you guys he likes it here at Stark Tower."

"Did I say as much,_ Anthony_?" Loki challenged. Said building's owner merely shrugged, and ignored the use of his full first name.

"Pretty much. Yep." Tony crossed his arms and looked over at Steve and Jamie. "She doesn't seem like much of a threat right _now_," he admitted.

"That arm is a _little _offsetting, though." The archer appeared to think himself very witty, Jamie noted—though he really only seemed to state the obvious.

It was true, though. Jamie was used to living with her arm encased in the large metal sleeve. She couldn't really remember it being any other way—perhaps vaguely, but so far not enough to make her feel repulsed by it. She was used to the feeling of the cool metal that ran over her entire shoulder blade and down the length of her arm, fitting over her hand and fingers like a mechanized full arm gauntlet.

She could feel it pulsing, alive with energy. It was a normal extension of her body, and she honestly didn't know if there was any flesh left underneath it. Some of the doctors and scientists who had looked at her had speculated that the bionic arm was a prosthetic, a replacement for a lost limb. This could have been true, and Jamie wouldn't have known otherwise. She certainly couldn't _feel _anything else beneath it.

But she supposed that to people with both limbs intact, it could be viewed as rather alarming.

"That's off point." There was subtle shift in the mood of the man behind her. Steve had become slightly more protective, his voice deepening firmly. She could feel his gaze resting on the top of her head, but still she said nothing.

As if reading her mind (perhaps he had), Loki said, "She's certainly a quiet one, regardless of dubious appendages."

At this, Jamie looked up, deep blue eyes slightly challenging. "Talking hasn't really been my strong suit, of late," she said, her voice level, quiet, and yet surprisingly strong. She slowly met the eyes of each person in the room, evaluating them. Green: cunning, mischievous, unworthy. Blue: kind, powerful, restless. Brown: gentle, thoughtful, anger. Brown: quick witted, intelligent, self-conscious. Blue-grey: focused, protective, sarcastic. Green: secrecy, strength, pain.

Finally, Jamie looked up and met the eyes above her. Blue eyes. Blue: everything.

She frowned. _Everything _wasn't a reading. She tried again, peering up at the man through her hair.

Blue:

Everything.

She looked away, disturbed. Nobody could be everything. She had seen the weaknesses and strengths of everyone in the room, and yet she couldn't read the man she'd supposedly known all of her life?

Nothing is certain, she told herself. Not your past, present, nor future.

That was the only thing she could remember, above all else. It was the one constant factor in her vague, misleading and often terrifying memories: uncertainty.

Perhaps it wasn't surprising, then, that she'd finally resigned to it.

)( )( )(

_The carrier fell in pieces into the water, as the Winter Soldier watched the man in stripes fall into the water below. All around her, the room was exploding, falling into ruin. Soon she too would join him in the water, forced to swim for her life. _

_But he wouldn't. _

_She had beaten him, fighting the internal screaming in the back of her mind, the revulsion that came with every blow she dealt him. She didn't understand why. _

_She'd seen this man before, she realized. On a bridge. He'd called her a strange name, a name that she didn't understand. _

"_Bucky?"_

_What was Bucky? No, __who__ was Bucky. It was obviously a who, she realized: a 'who' that he'd mistaken for her, twice now. _

_Some part of her recognized that she was a killer, that this was what she did. She was given orders, a target, and it was her sole purpose to eliminate it. He was her target, and it should have been simple to eliminate him and move on, regardless of the burning vessel around them. _

_But the problem wasn't the situation, she realized, as her fist had pounded into him, marring his face horribly. He had already taken her knives from her, leaving her with only her arm to finish the job. _

_**Complete the mission**_**, **_her mind chanted at her._ _**Complete the mission, and return to base.**_

_Why couldn't she follow her orders? What was stopping her?_

"_Finish it," he'd told her. Now, looking down at his prone form falling into the water, she knew she needed to jump off the carrier and finish what she'd begun. _

_She'd already faltered once, already failed by letting him slip from her grasp and down, into the water. She knew what her mission was: eliminate the target. _

_She jumped off the ship, diving into the water. __**Finish it. Finish it.**__ It pounded in her ears, assaulting her brain like the water pressure as she dove, swimming deeper to recover the man in the murky water filled with debris._

_She found him, eventually; his body rigid in the cold water, sinking down towards the bottom. Drowning would be adequate, she considered leaving him to do so. It would be the most painless method._

_Then it occurred to her: since when did it matter if her methods were painless?_

_Her good shoulder was full of a raging, burning pain. The dislocation had been expertly done, carefully inflicted so that it could be easily replaced. But at the moment it remained out of its socket, jarring with each stroke. _

_She could stop, she realized. She could leave him to his watery death, and consider her mission completed._

_But her body had kept moving downward, as if overruling her head. It was as though her body needed to save him, regardless of whatever twisted logic tried to tell her otherwise. And her mind knew why, though it tried to push it away._

_He was right. She __**did **__know him._

_So she'd done it anyway. She'd pulled him up out of the depths, hauled him towards the shore, dragged him up onto dry land with her metal arm. She'd looked down at him, water leaking out of his mouth. She'd seen his eyes open, and a feeling hit her hard in the stomach, harder than any punch she could remember having taken—though, that might not have been saying much. _

_She didn't know what to call that feeling. It hurt, and burned, and made tears spring into the corners of her eyes. It made her want to be sick and scream and throw herself off a cliff all at the same time. It made her want to use her hands—the hands she used to take so many lives—and use them to save him, to undo what she'd done. _

_Feelings were weakness, she'd been told; had had the concept implanted into her mind too many times to count. And now she knew why. This man, this strange man who said he'd known her, had wounded her deeply, with nothing more than a few __**kind **__words._

_So instead of making her way into the brush, towards base or wherever the hell she could have gone, she sat down on the rocky bank beside him, and waited for something. _

_Anything._

_And then, while still struggling with his own breathing, the man had done the most unthinkable thing. He had reached out, with an amount of effort that he didn't even have, and taken her hand. Her good hand. Her hand that could feel __**his**__ skin, still cut and bruised from the blows she'd dealt. _

"_Finish it," he'd said, back inside of that burning ship. Through bloodied , swollen, torn lips he'd said the words that would haunt her endlessly. "Because I'm with you to the end of the line."_

_And so it was that when the authorities found them not long afterward, they saw a beaten , half drowned and semi conscious Captain lying with his hand in the grasp of a woman with a strange, bionic arm. She was clutching his hand, staring off at the wreckage almost blankly. _

_She'd turned to look at the medics, deep blue eyes bloodshot. "I couldn't," she told them. "I couldn't."_

_They, of course, hadn't understood. But she'd seen the man, slipping into unconsciousness, give her a single look with those watery blue eyes, and she knew that he'd heard her._

)( )( )(

"Spunky."

"And she's _is _kinda cute, once you get past the whole…ya know."

Jamie snapped back to reality, finding herself in the present with the motley group of superheroes.

A small part of her wasn't exactly happy that her fate seemed to rest in their hands. After all, these people were dangerous; every sense that she had was telling her that, loud and clear. But the intriguing thing was that despite that, they were willing to give her, a woman with a notorious past and questionable mental stability, a chance to live with them in their home.

Of course, there was also Steve to consider. He seemed absolutely set on her being there. "I know being here has helped me adapt. I want that for her, too."

"To be honest, Spangles, you've still got plenty to catch up on. We're far from finished with you," Tony said somewhat ominously. "I mean, you've barely watched any movies more recent than the eighties. That's practically a crime against humanity."

He observed the newcomer carefully. "Alright Cap. I'll give her a month. If she can go that long without serious incident—and by serious I don't mean lighting the toaster on fire; I mean attempted _murder_—then she can stay on indefinitely." He looked around at the rest of the group. "Who's with me?" Tony lifted a hand.

Natasha's hand went up without hesitation. Next was Bruce's, and then came Thor's shortly after that. Loki lifted his with a shrug. This left Clint, who was still observing her with a great deal of caution.

"I don't know about this," he said, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "She seems…off, somehow."

"Well after seventy years of being HYDRA's top assassin, you'd be feeling a little off too," Natasha told him dryly. "I know that feeling, more or less." That was the look Jamie had seen in her eyes: understanding. She too had been a pawn in a game larger than herself, that much was clear. Perhaps she would make a good ally—or was that the incorrect word? Something in the back of Jamie's mind told her it was.

"Also, if you'd cease pointing your weapon at her she would undoubtedly feel more at ease," Loki told the archer smoothly. "Pointing an arrow at someone's forehead isn't exactly the most welcoming of gestures—or perhaps they didn't teach you that in the circus."

Slowly, Clint lowered the arrow, glaring all the while at the god.

"So we're in agreement then?" Tony asked. "If I'm not mistaken that was seven against one—youch. Sorry, bird brain, but you've just seen democracy in action."

Steve let out his breath, his face lighting up with relief, a great smile on his lips. "Thank you guys," he said, happy blue eyes lighting on Jamie's uncertain face. "You won't regret this." She wasn't sure if he was saying it to her, or them. Perhaps it was a little bit of both.

And so Jamie's fate was sealed by the Avengers themselves. She would live in Stark Tower for one month, and if she was able to keep herself in line, she would be able to stay longer. At the moment, Jamie wasn't sure if she wanted to be there at all, but it didn't really seem up to her.

Of course, it was perfectly possible that one of her flashbacks would get too intense, or some kind of reflex would take over her and she would find herself out on the curb faster than she could say 'repeated brainwashing'.

She wasn't even sure if being on her own would honestly matter at this point, when she didn't know who or what she was except for the Winter Soldier, a renowned killer. The possibility of her having been or ever again becoming Jamie Buchanan Barnes was slim, at best. Especially when she didn't even know what Jamie Buchanan Barnes was like, or believed in, or cared about.

But Steve seemed to, she told herself. At least he knew the woman he called 'Bucky', regardless of how strange and unfeminine a name it was for a woman. Not that 'the Winter Soldier' was much better, but that was made to leave much to the imagination. And Jamie hadn't exactly thought of herself as a woman in a long time.

She didn't know any of these people, she realized, even the ones who claimed to know her. But it looked like she was going to get her chance, forgotten memories or not.

Jamie knew one thing: by the time her month was over, none of them would ever be the same.

The rest was swamped with uncertainty, as per usual.

Apparently, this had just become her new mission.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the favorites and follows, guys! I've updated the chapter 1 summary to include the other pairings that will appear in this story. Please, feel free to leave a review. I'd love to hear how my diabolical plot to give you feels for this OTP is faring *shifty eyes of wickedness***

-2. _'I don't like wandering around this old and empty house'/ 'So hold my hand I'll walk with you my dear'_

It was the first time Jamie had even_ tried_ to sleep since the Insight carriers had gone down.

Sure, it had been several weeks. But whatever HYDRA had done to her, whenever they had done it, she could go long—no, _extremely _long periods of time without needing rest. Since it was something constant in her memories, she assumed it had been one of the first things they had done; but there was no way to be sure.

It didn't really matter. All that mattered was the fact that while she assumed most of the Tower's residents were slumbering in varying levels of peace, Jamie was lying in the bedroom that Tony Stark had given her, staring up at the plain white ceiling and listening to the noise of the city outside.

The Tower was soundproofed, but she'd chosen to sleep with her large window open. After being cryofrozen so many times, she didn't like being shut in small spaces, in the dark. At least when the noise came in, when the lights and the smells and the breeze came in, she knew she was still alive. Awake. Not forced into a state of unconsciousness she didn't want. She hardly felt the cold, anyway.

After lying there atop her blankets for three hours and twenty seven minutes (by the alarm clock on her night-table), she let out a long sigh. Regardless of her exhaustion her mind kept spiraling in circles, searching for scraps of memories poking out from the dark void of confusion in her head. Every now and then, a tiny glimmer of a scene would pop through, showing her something that may or may not have been true.

The only recurring thought in her mind was of Steve. Most of her memories seemed to have him in them—though, a different version of him, as it was; a smaller, frailer form of Steve, whom she had actually…protected? Or was that just her mind toying with the events from the carrier?

It would be impossible to know until she spoke to him. Up to that point, her private interactions with Steve had either been brief or instructional.

Jamie had been held in custody for a few days with minimal human contact, which was more comforting than lonely from her perspective. At least there wasn't somebody toying with her head. She had eventually been briefed by several CIA agents who didn't seem to know what to do with her, after which point she had been taken from the facility by Steve, who was fresh out of the hospital.

She had been escorted out to a waiting black car, where she'd seen the redhead for (what she'd assumed was) the first time. The woman had offered her a level "Hello" before opening the back door for her. Jamie, squinting against the fading light of evening, had merely nodded uncertainly in response and looked to Steve. He had gestured towards the door as if approving the idea, so she'd done as she'd been ordered and climbed into the dark interior, gritting her teeth against the pain in her bionic arm. She could tell something was wrong with it, ever since she'd fallen from the carrier it had been malfunctioning. Water really did a number on it.

The ride to the Tower had been quiet, with minimal conversation between the two in the front seat. Jamie could sense the redhead casting glances back at her in the rearview mirror, and had actually caught Steve looking at her several times in the exterior mirror of the passenger door. He'd smiled at her, but had looked away after her eyes had only wrinkled in confusion. How could he be so kind, after all she'd done to him? They must have been very close, for there to be that kind of unspoken forgiveness.

Once they'd arrived at the Tower they'd driven under it, into a below ground level parking garage where the car had been enveloped by countless other shiny automobiles. Steve had gotten out first, and helped her from the car despite the fact that she could have done it herself. She wasn't fool enough to test his patience, given her position.

Then they'd stepped into some kind of enclosed lift, and ridden up a great many floors to where her encounter with the 'Avengers' had taken place. She'd heard several references to the group as such several times amidst casual conversation—though, the dark-haired man known as Loki seemed not to be among that number.

After the decision to let her stay had been made and the conditions stated, the group had gone to their separate tasks. From what she'd gathered, the man with the light in his chest had a laboratory on a lower level of the Tower, where the man with the glasses often joined him. _Anthony,_ the dark-haired brother had called him, while the archer had called him _Stark._ He couldn't be related to Howard, could he?

The next thing she'd wondered was who the hell Howard was. She'd have to ask Steve.

As it so happened, Steve and the redheaded woman had been called away from the Tower rather suddenly, giving Steve no opportunity to introduce her to the rest of the team and barely enough time to show her to an available gust room down the hall from his own. She'd been there ever since, and figured that nobody had had the inclination to be the first to show her around the massive tower.

Jamie sighed loudly, relishing the sound of her own voice. Still alive, she reminded herself. Still conscious. She couldn't stay cooped up in this bland box of a room anymore. She needed to move, find some open air and just breathe. So she got up off of the too soft bed, and set her feet on the floor.

_Cold. The ground was so cold, and she was walking on it, barefooted. Being forced down a hallway, blindfolded; her hands bound behind her back, and something hard and cold clamped over her mouth. _

_She was guided through a doorway, her right shoulder brushing the frame. Pressed backward into a chair, restraints strapped down over her arms, torso, legs; holding her still._

"_I assume HYDRA's darling will need her scheduled maintenance?" said a voice, thick with a Germanic accent. She felt a series of tugs and twinges in her bionic arm, and grimaced against the nauseating sensation. _

"_The usual," said another voice, this one decidedly American. "She's been under the ice for longer than usual, and we need her in peak condition for the next op."_

"_Another covert?" the German asked, the tugging feeling now replaced with a faint burning ache and a singed smell of burnt electronics. If it was burning her, she was too cold and numb to feel it. The sound of some kind of small gas torch sounded near her left ear as a dull hissing. She could feel some warmth beginning to return to her cheek where the residual heat was blowing against it._

"_Unclear." The American seemed unwilling to say much—though still groggy from her unconsciousness, she knew that the German wasn't trusted much. She even had a nagging suspicion that he was only there to repair her mechanics, but she didn't know how she knew that. _

"_Gentlemen!" A new voice had come into the room, and she stiffened slightly at the sound of it. It was a warm, welcoming voice, but she recognized it as none other than the Man. The Man was in charge, had always been in charge. _

_His voice had changed a few times, and sometimes his face. Perhaps there had even been different Men, over the time she'd been there. But the Man was always, incontestably in control. He gave the orders, he gave the missions, and he gave the targets for elimination. There was no place for her thoughts, he'd told her at one point. He would provide everything she needed to know to perform her mission with accuracy and tact. _

"_I'm glad to see our little Soldier has awakened!" he said brightly. His voice was always too cheerful, too eager. "How soon can we have her ready for transport?"_

"_Two hours, tops," the German replied. "I may need to recalibrate certain binary systems; it __**appears **__that some of her circuitry has been damaged by the—" _

"_You have an hour and a half. Make it count!" After a pause, she felt a warm finger trace down her cheek and neck, down to her collarbone. "HYDRA's darling. Always such a __**beauty, **__don't you think?" _

_She shuddered against the Man's touch, and received a harsh slap across the cheek as consequence. Her head spun unnaturally, sparks glowing behind her eyelids in the darkness. Her blindfold was roughly yanked down, and her eyes opened against her will, as if controlled by some other force. She met a pair if light blue eyes, under a mop of graying blond hair. _

_But that wasn't what she saw. In the dim light of the room, she saw another man leaning over her, blue eyes wide in concern, instead of cruelty. 'Bucky?' the man said, looking down at her in horror. 'Oh my God.' He began removing the straps from her body, their weight disappearing. Then he came back, and held her gently by the arms. 'It's me. It's Steve.'_

_She gasped as the memory washed over her, like blood from a fresh wound."Steve?" she cried, her voice barely audible from long disuse. She tried to struggle against her bonds, and the straps on the side of her bionic arm began to tear out from the leather binding of the prep table. The scientist drew back in alarm, but the Man merely narrowed his eyes, and took a step back from her. _

"_Sedate her," he said, looking her over as if disappointed. "Then give her a complete recalibration, full wiping. We'll bump the op back." He turned his gaze onto the scientist threateningly. "You have six hours. Do not fail me, unless you wish to__** personally**_ _face the consequences__**.**_**" **

"_Yes sir."_

_The Man turned back to her, coming close enough to pat her condescendingly on the cheek—the same cheek he'd already slapped and was no doubt a raging red by now. "We can't have you remembering your precious Captain, now can we?" His eyes hardened, and he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, striding out of the room. "Six hours, Doctor."_

_She struggled against the restraints, fighting the fact that the face she'd forgotten for o long would be taken from her yet again. __**Steve, **__she chanted to herself. __**Steve. Steven Grant Rogers. **__Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. __**Don't you dare forget that little punk. **__She felt the liquid trickle down her cheeks, fighting the hole that would soon be her memory until she felt a sharp painful prick in her neck and the room faded out to blackness._

Jamie sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, her arms wound around her torso as she choked for air. "Steve?" she whispered, blue eyes making trails on the plain white walls that she could see so clearly, even in the pitch blackness.

She **knew** him. Even back then, when everything had been taken from her, she **knew **him for precious moments that never lasted long enough. Moments that she'd spent craving memories just out of her reach.

The door to her room opened, and a large figure was framed in the doorway, blocking the light form the hall. A Man, a tall man, with a light glowing in his chest. He reached in and flicked on the light. Jamie got ready to spring…

...and it was Tony.

"Easy there, kiddo," the man said, holding his hands up in front of him in a placating gesture. "Take it easy."

"Mr. Stark ?" Jamie asked hoarsely. A bolt of energy ran through her metal arm, and she grimaced, clutching it against her chest.

"The one and only." Tony took one look at her and a look of understanding crossed his face. "JARVIS picked up on elevated stress hormones coming from your room. Is that arm being a bitch? Because I can take a look at it."

She looked up at him, panting slightly from the pain. "You good with technology?"

Tony gave a little laugh. "You could say that."

)( )( )(

Steve and Natasha's urgent mission had actually been Fury requesting their input on the location of a particular HYDRA base sight. The Director was finicky about speaking such things over the phone, even more so after the collapse of SHIELD, so they had been needed to come in. It was a relatively tedious procedure, and it was three hours before they were back out of the surprisingly spacious trailer Fury was operating out of—'temporarily', he'd told them insistently, after seeing the two exchange dubious looks at the dinky looking vehicle.

Now they were driving back to the tower, through the surprisingly thick mid-week nighttime traffic on the freeway. Steve knew that Natasha was driving a full twenty five miles over the speed limit, but kept it to himself. The last time he'd corrected her driving skills, he'd been called a 'pain in the ass boy scout' and ignored completely for the rest of a mission that had lasted another three _days._

As it was, his mind was elsewhere entirely—specifically, with Bucky. He'd hated having to leave her alone so soon after breaking her out of that holding facility, taking her to a veritable skyscraper with no explanation and barely introducing her to her towerful of new roommates. Her situation was imperfect enough without him failing to go out of his way to keep things steady and comprehendible. Tony was right about one thing: Jamie _was_ volatile at the moment, and that was something Steve hoped to change—and _soon._

Natasha read his into his silence with ease. "What was she like?" she asked, her voice carefully level.

Steve looked at her, mildly confused. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Barnes." A look of understanding came over him, followed by an unsettled one. "What was she like, back in the day? Before…everything happened to her?"

"Why do you ask?" Steve wondered, almost suspiciously.

"Because, I want to understand why you're so attached to her. I know what it's like to recover something from your past that was once dear to you, and I understand that feeling can be amplified when it's a whole person. But there's something else there."

"She was my best friend, Natasha."

"Then it should be an easy thing to do." The car hugged closely to the outer guardrail of the overpass as her speed increased, past dangerous and onto near terrifying levels.

A few seconds more passed in uncomfortable silence. "Come on, Steve. I think it would do you good, maybe even help you sort out your thoughts a bit. I won't bite." Natasha held one of her hands over her heart. "Widow's honor."

"Alright." Steve sighed loudly, and looked out the window at the blurring sights beyond. "Jamie was a lot of things," he began. "Smart, witty, kind…people were always saying that she was meant for great things, even when we were just kids." His fingers tapped a fast, agitated rhythm on his leg, and he let out a breathy laugh. "And she was beautiful. God, she was beautiful, and always a charmer. Every guy in Brooklyn wanted her to be their girl. That was the reason I started calling her Bucky, you know. We were—"

"_Excuse me, Captain Rogers." _JARVIS' voice cut in over the car stereo. _"I apologize for the interruption, but Mister Stark has asked me to inform you that Miss Barnes experienced a traumatic mental event in your absence—a 'flashback', I believe he called it."_

Steve sat bolt upright in his seat, making Natasha actually a little nervous at the intensity of his sudden stare. She also thought she could have heard him swear under his breath. "Is she alright?" He asked tensely.

"_Mister Stark has taken her into the lab. I'm afraid I have no further information on her condition at this time, though she was stabilizing at the time of her entry."_

Steve didn't reply to this, so Natasha did. "Thanks, JARVIS. Tell Tony we're on our way." She accelerated the car again, pushing them up to around ninety five MPH. "Hang in there, Steve," she told her companion. "She's gonna be okay."

Steve said nothing. He was too busy clenching the armrests of his seat, trying not to reach back for his shield and bust out of the car in an attempt to get to Bucky more quickly. That made no sense, he realized, though his entire body was longing for the action to work off his anxiety. At the moment, he just wanted to see her. He just wanted to be sure Bucky was okay.

Seeing her confused by his attempts to rekindle friendship between them had hurt, far worse than any physical wound she had inflicted on him before. It was like someone else was controlling her, still choosing her responses even though she'd broken free of HYDRA's clutches. But when she looked at him, Zola was there in her place, slapping him in the face and laughing at him, taunting: like the scientist had taken Jamie and twisted and warped and burned her until she was simply a tool, a ploy to destroy him and his resolve with a familiar face, and an empty soul.

So yes, Steve understood that one way or another she was far from okay. In fact, Bucky being _okay_ ever again was still an uncomfortably distant if not improbable idea. And Steve hated that, more than anything else HYDRA had done. Because finally, after seventy years of being apart, he'd at long last _found_ his best friend—and she was still so, horribly unreachable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! I just wanted to thank everyone who has given a favorite or follow over the past few days. I hope you guys are enjoying Little Talks thus far! I would like to extend an invitation to each of you, to give suggestions for things you'd like to see in the story. Feel free to leave your ideas in the review box - while I can't promise they'll all make it into the text, I'll do what I can to incorporate them.**

**Also, I've noticed a serious lack of art for Fem!Bucky online, even on Tumblr. Is there anyone who'd be interested in making me a cover for this story? I just love the art this fandom produces and feel like there should be at least one good piece of Fem!Bucky/Steve. Just wondering! **

-3. _'The stairs creak, as I sleep, its keeping me awake'/ 'it's the house telling you to close your eyes'_

"I'm remembering him."

They were countless stories down, in the laboratory. Jamie was sitting on a hard metal stool, her arm hooked up to what she could only assume were computers of some sort. They were a lot brighter and bigger and—well, more _everything_ than what she remembered computers were like. Back when she'd been under, she never paid attention to the details of her confinement area, or its contents—other than the Chair, which had been an endless source of pain and confusion.

Tony Stark was working on the computer, brow furrowed in concentration. "It appears this thing is some kind of biotech. I'd figured out HYDRA was developing something like this from the _SHIELD file dump_¸ but I've never actually _seen _any of it. I'm trying to hack the software to see if I can…" Her words finally registered, and the genius turned around, a strange look on his face. "You're remembering who."

"Steve." Jamie looked down, gritting her teeth and hissing slightly as a current of blue energy passed over her arm. Tony swore quietly, and typed something new into the computer.

"Go on."

The woman hid behind a wave of dark hair, blue eyes peering out warily. "I'm starting to remember Steve—well, that's not quite it. I'm starting to remember _remembering _Steve."

"How do you mean?" Tony asked carefully. He went over to a drawer and began taking out a series of small screwdrivers.

"Something came to me," Jamie explained, slowly and almost painfully. "I remembered a time—back when I was with…you know." She swallowed. "They were prepping me for a mission, and I had a flashback."

"So…you had a flashback of having a flashback? That's what that was a few minutes ago?"

The woman nodded. "I was in a similar state and strapped to some kind of table, but in my memory—the _second_ memory— I was in olive drabs. I remember the feel of the dog tags around my neck, the sterile smell of the room.

"Steve found me there. He spoke to me, called me 'Bucky'. Then he got me out of that place. When I came out of that flashback, I made the mistake of saying his name. The Man in charge, he mocked me." Jamie's mouth twitched downward in a barely checked snarl. "Told me that they couldn't have me remembering my 'precious Captain'. Then he ordered me to be wiped again."

The woman's good shoulder was tense with anger at the memory. "I remember fighting the knockout drugs, knowing I wouldn't even remember his name when I woke up again. And then I went under." She let out a soft, bitter laugh. "And even now, I barely remember it. I don't know who he is. Hell, I don't even know who _I _am."

"Steve does." Having pried a hidden panel loose on her arm, Tony was tweaking tiny screws and circuits inside of the contraption with a look of utter focus on his face. "He talks about you more often than he means to. I don't think he ever stopped mourning your loss."

"I wish I could say the same about him."

Tony chuckled to himself, pulling back to give the woman a knowing expression. "Sweetheart, I think you just did."

Before Jamie could reply, Steve came busting into the lab—literally. His shield was on his left arm, and he looked completely ready for a fight.

"Dude, those were titanium alloy, fully automated door hinges! Do you know how expensive those things are? Goddamit!" Tony cried, clearly irritated. He was ignored.

"What'shappened?" Steve demanded breathlessly, glancing around the room as if waiting for tiny ninjas to jump out at him. "Where's…" his eyes lighted on Jamie.

She was standing on the table in a crouch, wires dangling from her arm and two sharp, dangerous looking screwdrivers in each of her hands. A deranged, half- fearful look had taken over her face, and Tony was leaning away from her cautiously as if she might lunge at any second. She was breathing heavily, pupils blown out so that her eyes looked almost black.

Steve let out his breath, his shoulders relaxing in relief. "Bucky." Then he seemed to realize the trouble he'd caused. "Bucky, put the screwdrivers down," he ordered, gently but firmly.

Jamie's face twitched a moment, flickering between fight and flight. Tony had moved behind a counter and was slipping on one of his suit hands, powering up a repulsor just in case.

Crossing the distance between them carefully, Steve reached up and grasped her wrists. She hadn't made any move to attack him, but her eyes were scanning the room frantically, as if she were mentally reliving some kind of traumatic event.

"Bucky." Steve's voice was gentle; gentler than Tony had ever heard him be. "It's okay. It's just me. It's Steve. You're safe."

The billionaire-philanthropist watched in awe as the woman's shoulders (metal one included) began to relax, her fists releasing their hold on the tools-turned-weapons and dropping them against the table with a harsh clang.

Jamie drew breath, eyes suddenly pooling with tears. She fell backwards and down with a gust of air, landing on her backside on the table with a thud, a stricken, confused look on her face. "Where…where am I?" she asked shakily.

Steve still held her wrists as he leaned his forehead against hers, dark hair tumbling against blond. "You're safe," he repeated, sliding a hand up to touch her cheek softly. "I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to scare you."

After a long, tense moment, the woman let out a short huff of a sigh and met his eyes. "Punk," she tried, saying it casually as if it were nothing. But her eyes were searching his face, as if checking to see if it meant anything to him.

"Jerk," came the reply, almost sternly. Then, Steve broke into the biggest smile, his eyes shining with both tears and relief. A look of realization came into Jamie's eyes, and she nodded repeatedly, as if accepting something as fact.

Tony would have gagged at how mushy the scene was if it weren't so crucial in Steve and Jamie's reconnection. As it was, he powered down his repulsor and stepped back around the counter, checking the computer for the results of his scans. He'd let them have their little moment, without his snark.

Just this once.

)( )( )(

"He adored her."

Natasha was in the kitchen with Clint, making an attempt at a very late supper. Bruce was there as well, taking a much needed coffee break. Tony had sent him out of the lab when JARVIS had picked up on Jamie's elevated adrenaline levels.

"Barnes?" Clint asked, twirling a forkful of spaghetti artfully. He was dressed in only a t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, due to the late hour.

Natasha nodded. "I didn't get much out of him, but the way he talks about her…" she shook her bob of short red curls knowingly. "No. I'm pretty sure he worshipped her. Probably even after his procedure."

"Do you think he loved her?" Bruce wondered, sipping his black brew thoughtfully. He had a variety of charts and diagrams spread out in front of him and his glasses perched on his nose, but the conversation between the two master assassins was honestly much more interesting.

"I wouldn't put it past him. I mean, think about it. We know Steve. He's a gentleman, the kindest sweetest guy you'll ever meet—anywhere, any_time_. And you've seen his SSR files: he was still adorable before the serum. I mean, there had to be some girls in New York in the forties who would be interested in the small, cute artistic type who didn't know how to say no to a fight."

"Some girls are into that," Clint admitted. Seeing Natasha's look of disbelief, he added defensively, "What? I had to go undercover as a makeup artist at one point. It was a long gig, eight months in. I'm just saying, some women really dig the sensitive artistic feelsy types. And chivalry gets bonus points, even nowadays."

"_Exactly_ my point."

"Wait a second. Are you saying that Steve was secretly in love with Barnes the whole time?" Banner took off his glasses, apparently quite taken with the idea. "And that's why he never really tried to find someone else?"

"From what he told me, Barnes was quite the heartbreaker. A Brooklyn beauty, I think is what he was getting at; _Lana Del Rey_ kind of stuff. She had most of the boys in the neighborhood wrapped around her little finger, but she still was only best friends with Steve. And he was jealous, that they got her attention romantically when he was the one who knew her best." Natasha's imagination was running away with her. The woman who once believed that 'love was for children' had been changed drastically by her semi-secret relationship with her long time partner, and found herself able to romanticize situations that would have once seemed simply emotional and confusing.

"That's an awful lot of conclusions to draw," Bruce observed, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"Doesn't sound too far off though, knowing Steve," Clint chimed in. His noodle nest was nearly finished, a circular structure made of spaghetti nearly perfectly constructed on his plate. "I think he feels everything more than we do—and not just because he's a super-soldier."

"The way he fixated on finding her," Natasha went on. "You didn't see it, Bruce. I was there. He could hardly even process that SHIELD was HYDRA…I think the only reason he did was because it affected her. Part of me even thinks he only agreed to take on the Insight carriers because he knew they'd send her in. Sam agrees with me on this. "

"And if he did? If all of this speculation actually holds water?"

Natasha smacked Clint's hand, destroying his nest. He let out a strangled cry and stared at his wrecked creation disappointedly. "If he did, then we've just seen the reunion of the century."

"What about Barnes? Do you think she knows?"

Clint laughed out loud at this. "She can barely remember her own name right now. I highly doubt she's worrying about romance." He scraped together the noodles, shoveling it into his mouth. Nests be damned, it was still food.

Natasha scowled at him. "We'll just have to wait and see how things unfold. This could take years, for all we know."

"Even after seventy years of waiting?" Bruce wondered.

Natasha made no reply. She couldn't imagine that kind of situation, no matter how hard she tried. It was just too far of a reach, for the best of imaginations—and even the best attempts at explanation would border on cliché.

)( )( )(

Tony had butted in after a moment. "I'm just gonna run some diagnostic on her software," he said aloud, to the two who may or may not have been listening.

He turned around to find Steve talking to Jamie in a hushed tone. The woman was still sitting on the table, legs dangling off the ledge between Steve's arms. She had her head bowed, with her dark hair in front of her eyes, nodding every now and then to something he said.

"Hello!" Tony called, waving his hands as Bruce walked in, two mugs of coffee in hand. "Guys, a little attention please? Important sciency stuff going on over here!"

"Tony, don't." Bruce often had to do what he called 'playing Pepper' when she was away. It mainly consisted of telling Tony off when he was being an idiot or making sure he slept, ate and stayed hydrated. He was good at it, actually, and Tony didn't mind it as much either, since Bruce was his good friend and _not_ his girlfriend mothering him.

Jamie's head popped up, almost guiltily. Or perhaps that was the look she'd been wearing already; it was impossible for Tony to know. Anyway, by the angry stare on Steve's face, he had other things to worry about later. He would need to watch his ass for a few days, he mused, taking a black mug of java from Bruce. The 'super glare' meant bad, bad things—even more so since he'd dared disturb Steve's precious 'Bucky'.

Beside the suddenly anxious billionaire, Bruce was smiling at Jamie in a quietly reassuring way. "Did Tony mess around with your arm? Sorry for anything he said that may have been offensive."

"Hey!" Tony looked affronted. "I was perfectly civil, thank you _doctor Banner. And_ I made it past that thing's firewall, which was about as difficult as hacking the _Pentagon_—which is surprisingly challenging, even for me. So there._"_

"It's got firewall? Software?" Bruce asked, surprised.

"It's biotech, Brucie. The whole shebang. It looks like it's just barely a notch below sentient."

"Yeah, well. HYDRA knew what it was doing, I suppose." This came from Jamie, to everyone's surprise. She was looking at the two scientists with keen blue eyes. "Can you tell if it's repairable? I can barely move it as it is."

"I…think so." Now over his shock, Tony moved back to the computer. "I ran JARVIS' diagnostic program, the one I use to check my armor for defects and make repairs. It looks like you've burnt out a few circuits and a motherboard that controls mobility. Basically, all of those little hinges in your arm have locked up, paralyzing it."

"Temporarily," Steve corrected, seeing Jamie stiffen at the word _paralyze. _He looked to Tony for reassurance.

"Right, right." Tony was busy typing at a blindingly fast rate. "Okay, I've patched in a repair sequence. It might sting a little…" Bruce gave him a dubious look, and Tony rolled his eyes. "Okay _fine_, maybe a lot. I don't know."

Jamie merely nodded at this, her eyes distant.

"You'll be fine," said Steve, setting a hand on her good arm in what was meant to be a reassuring way. Disappointingly, Jamie shrugged him off without a second thought.

"I'm pretty sure I've faced worse before." After a moment's consideration and a haunted look, she added, "Could I have something to bite down on?" She pulled away from Steve and sat cross-legged on the table, waiting.

"You can call me Tony," Tony told her as Bruce handed over a plastic mouthpiece. "Sure. Anything for you, sweetheart."He didn't even make an innuendo at this point, which Bruce took as a minor miracle and didn't bring up.

The genius pulled up a hologram control screen in front of him. "Steve, give her space. She's going to need to breathe."

"Whenever you're ready, Tony," Bruce told him. He'd been readjusting the connections to the open panels in the bionic arm. He seemed a bit wary of the

"Right." Steve was still processing the shift in Jamie's mood. One moment, she'd been almost opening up and the next, she was cold, distant, and cruel even. He sighed. This was really going to be a process—and he didn't mean the arm repairs.

"_Perhaps it would be wise for Miss Barnes to wear protective glasses herself,"_ the AI suggested, as Tony and Bruce were putting theirs on.

"Don't need it," Jamie said simply. Her look told Tony not to protest, and even Steve didn't feel like correcting her. She obviously knew what she needed, and glasses weren't it.

"_Very well. Might I at least suggest she close her eyes? While my program isn't prone to error, it doesn't exactly take into effect the human factor. I would hate for there to be any kind of accident." _

"Sure, JARV. Great point." Tony nodded at Jamie, who grudgingly closed her eyes. She just wanted out of the lab ASAP.

The repairs went well, though. Tony knew his stuff, and JARVIS' suit diagnostic worked wonders. Tony was able to remotely repair the parts without even laying a finger on Jamie or the arm, which for some unfathomable reason made Steve happy.

He could see she was scowling against the pain, but she didn't make a sound as the miniscule blue lasers repaired her arm. That must have been the reason for the mouth-guard, Steve thought—and a horrible gut wrenching feeling hit him as he realized that she had _asked _for it herself.

Just then, a timer went off in the room with a quiet series of beeps. The laser projection shut down, the room's lights turning back on and making them all squint. Tony and Bruce each pulled off their pairs of goggles, Tony looking especially satisfied.

"Well there you have it," he said, coming over to examine her. He gently moved a few things under the open panel, and a faint whirring filled the tense air. Jamie opened her eyes, immediately looking to the arm in concern. Both she and Tony looked relieved when the panels moved themselves into the closed position, and the device tensed at the joints.

She flexed her fingers, and then the whole arm. A small smile tugged at her lips.

"Alright!" Tony cheered, stepping back and clapping slowly. "Now _that's _what I'm talking about. Technology in action, Jackson! JARVIS, save that program pathway definition under: _HYDRA hacking projects_."

"_Done, sir."_

Steve was already at Jamie's side, standing quietly for once. Tony came over and began unhooking her from the computer. "Now if you notice any kinks in performance or any kind of malfunctions, come to me as soon as you can, alright? This may not have been _absolutely _perfect a fix, so we'll need to keep an eye on it. Other than that, you're all set." He smiled at her.

Jamie rubbed her shoulder absently. "Thanks, Howard. It really was giving me hell."

Tony halted mid-motion, with cords in each of his hands and his face frozen in a look of horror. "Did…did you just…"

Bruce was beside him in an instant, taking the cords from him and catching Tony's eye with a firm look. "She doesn't know what she's saying, Tony," he told his friend quietly.

"What do you mean I don't know what I'm saying?" Jamie asked, genuinely confused. One moment she and Tony had been talking, and now he seemed very upset. She didn't remember saying anything that should have put him off…but then, she didn't exactly remember a lot of things at the moment.

"You know what? Never mind. Don't worry about it." Tony turned away from them and back to the computers. "Cap, I think Jamie here could use a little rest."

Steven set a solemn hand on her good shoulder. "I think she's had enough stress for one day," he agreed, and though Jamie wanted to argue, she didn't. She could tell by the slump in Tony's shoulders that whatever she'd said had upset him deeply, and she felt guilty for that. Another thing to be added to the things-to-be-guilty-for list she had started in her head.

As she let Steve lead her out of the lab and back towards the elevator, something told her that that list was going to get a lot longer before the month was over.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you again, everyone, for the support! Here's the next installment. Feel free to leave feedback and/or ideas for future chapters. I'd appreciate it a lot!**

-4. _'Some days I can't even trust myself'/ 'It's killing me to see you this way'_

It was the next morning. Apparently Tuesday was the Avengers shopping day, since according to Tony all of the 'normal people' were working, and usually did their shopping on the weekend.

Steve had argued against Jamie going with them, thinking it would be too much of a culture shock for her. Natasha had been quick to put him in his place.

"Steve, she hasn't been stuck in the ice for the past seventy years like you were, okay? She's been out and about, all over the world completing missions and doing who knows what else."

"But she doesn't _remember _any of it!" Steve had protested. Jamie had scowled at this. Of course she didn't remember. Did she need him _reminding_ everyone of that, every five minutes? No.

"That doesn't matter. Brainwashing only affects certain portions of the brain, Steve. Things like specific people, places, and things can be erased, but not everything. Things like body memory, motor skills, and usually trained abilities remain. Obvious, really. What use would an untrained, nonfunctional Winter Soldier be to HYDRA?"

To everyone's surprise, Jamie had actually let out a snort of laughter at this. "Sorry," she apologized quietly after everyone had stared at her in shock for quite a bit longer than was necessary. She hid behind her hair with a subtle shift of her head. "I guess my sense of humor is a bit twisted right now."

"What do you know about where we are now?" Steve asked her directly. Jamie looked up and met his intent gaze.

"I'm assuming you mean time and place," Jamie said slowly.

"Try century, decade, year, month and day. _Then_ try place."

Jamie stared at him with an eyebrow raised for a long moment. "It's the twenty first century," she told him, and Steve's face fell in surprise. "Second decade—whatever you call that. I don't think you can call it a thing until you get to the twenties or so. I won't bother with the year, month or date—we all know what that is and I don't really want to look stupider than necessary. Let's just say I know the date, and move on."

"Fine," Tony had agreed, just as Thor had traipsed into the kitchen, cape billowing as if in the winds of his enthusiasm.

"Good morning, friends!" he said, a little too loudly. "It is truly a glorious morning in Midgard."He began fishing in a high cupboard for something.

"What the hell is a Midgard?" Jamie asked. Again, everyone looked at her as if surprised. She stared back at them all, levelly. "Well? Anyone?"

"Midgard is Asgardian speak for Earth," Steve explained.

"And an Assguard is?" Tony snorted coffee out of his nose and ran to the sink to save himself.

"Why, Asgard is home realm to both Loki and I!" Thor boomed, bringing a humongous plateful of ham and eggs to his spot at the table, along with a small blue box.

At that moment a scowling Loki swept into the kitchen, all green and gold and dark leather and mystery. "Home to you, brother," he corrected rather bitterly. Thor's face fell.

"Ah…yes. Well." He looked to Jamie. "Loki has been banished to Earth to serve out punishment for his misdeeds," he explained solemnly—or as solemnly as you could get while unwrapping breakfast pastry.

"That wasn't what I meant, but I _suppose _it shall suffice for the time being. The mortal is befuddled enough without my somewhat tragic backstory, I'm afraid." Loki looked down at Thor's plate, and pointed at its contents with a long, pale and expertly manicured finger. "What's this? I was under the impression that you only consumed pop-tarts so early in the morning."

Thor looked even graver. "Jane has insisted I supplement my diet with other, more wholesome foods," he told his brother.

"Ah." A devious smile took Loki's face. "Look at you now, brother. Thor the mighty—or perhaps I should say, _the henpecked_."

The greater majority of the Avengers snickered at this.

"Jane is a very intelligent woman!" Thor protested, casting defensive glances around at his friends. Jamie just stared at them all, rather missing the humor. "I trust her opinion on this matter."

"Sure. Keep telling yourself that. Next, she'll be picking out your capes for you," Clint commented, dishing up his own breakfast.

Thor scowled and bit furiously into a pop-tart, crumbs falling down into the chinks of his armor.

Meanwhile Steve, who was sitting on Jamie's left side, set a plate down in front of her. "What's this?" Jamie asked, staring down at the waffles swathed in butter and strawberry jam in confusion.

"Food," Steve said, and Jamie had to resist the urge to punch him out of his chair and across the room. She did resist, but only just.

"Well, you don't say?" she said dryly. Steve's eyebrows rose a mile, while Tony broke down again and snorted coffee for a second, less graceful time. It went all down his shirt, which luckily was a deep onyx grey and wouldn't show the stains. "I know that, champ. I wanna know what's _on _these waffles, and _why._"

"Like I said before: sassy." Now drying his face with an expensive looking kitchen towel, Tony looked about to fall into another fit of giggles. There was something very satisfying about Steve having sass dished at him by his amnesiac friend.

Steve was looking at her sideways, a blush on his cheeks and a slight smile on his mouth. "Strawberry jam and butter, Buck. That's the way you always ate waffles back home."

"Jam and butter?" Clint asked suspiciously. "No syrup?"He was dousing his own waffles in syrup at the moment, so that each square on its surface was filled with the decadent sauce.

"Nope." Steve shook his head firmly. "She hated the stuff."

Next moment, Jamie had yanked the syrup out of Clint's grasp.

"Hey!" Clint protested, but then looked at the bionic arm clutching the bottle, and then at the very intense 'Winter Soldier' look he was getting. "You know what, never mind. Take it."

Jamie lowered her gaze and sniffed the bottle experimentally. An eyebrow rose, and she looked over at Steve to find him looking at her with his own, blond eyebrow arched expectantly.

"It looks like motor oil," she commented, staring at the bottle with her brow furrowed. Steve's face got a strange look on it. From the opposite side of the table, Natasha recognized it as nostalgia.

"You used to say that," he said quietly. But Jamie was pouring a drop onto her finger, and tasting it.

After a moment her face twisted into disgust, and she began to cough loudly. Steve reached back and clapped her on the back, while Clint took back the syrup with a resentful expression.

"Tastes…like motor oil, too," Jamie wheezed, and Steve actually grinned at this.

"And that too," he finished, shaking his head bemusedly. "Eat your breakfast, and get that taste out of your mouth."

With a sideways look from watery eyes, Jamie took a fork and cut a piece of buttered strawberry waffle, placing it in her mouth. After a cautious pause, she began chewing, eventually devouring the entire plate.

Steve kept on smiling to himself as he made up his own breakfast. He just couldn't help it: some things just never changed with Bucky. Not even after seventy years in HYDRA hell.

After what was later dubbed 'the waffle revelation', Steve relaxed about Bucky coming shopping with them. It seemed like being around the Avengers was helping her come out of her funk, at any rate.

)( )( )(

"I have an idea!"

Jamie was in the back of one of Tony's convertibles with Steve, Clint and Natasha. This one was a deep cherry red, and in the bright New York sunshine it shone almost blindingly. She was on the left side of the car, settled against the wall with Steve tucked close against her, her good arm flush against his own.

Perhaps it was her heightened sense of smell, but even with the wind whipping her hair around her face and tossing the smells of the city past her nose she could still smell him. She'd memorized the smell during breakfast: soap, talcum from the gym, a faint spicy scent, and something that was just him. She almost hated the fact that she was so acutely aware of his presence that she could practically feel his pulse against her skin even over all of the bumps and sharp turns that Tony was making.

He kept smiling at her, blue eyes full of everything and brilliant against the blue New York skies. The tall shiny buildings around them didn't even register in her mind. She hated the way she was watching him, the way his hair fluttered in the wind and his golden eyelashes caught the sunlight. It was pitiful. If she'd been on a mission, she would have been failing miserably.

But then, around Steve, her missions seemed destined to fail.

It was Clint who had spoken up. Given the cramped space in the backseat and the fact that a super soldier was already in it, Natasha was sitting on the archer's lap. He looked like he wasn't sure if he should be ecstatic or frightened by the turn of events. As it was, the ecstatic was coming through strong. His eyes glinted happily behind purple tinted sunglasses. Natasha looked as if she was tolerating it—but Jamie saw a glint of contentment and even happiness in those green eyes.

"Know what?" Steve asked, turning to Clint while squinting and shading his eyes with a hand. Natasha almost got smacked with his elbow, so she swatted him first. "OW! Sorry."

Beside him, Jamie was squinting against the light. Most of her ops had occurred at night, or on cloudy days, from what she remembered. The few times she had been out during the daylight hours she'd been required to wear her full face mask, complete with dark glasses.

Jamie was much paler than any of the other Avengers. Tony had commented that she was competing with Loki for 'fairest maiden in the land'. She had actually smiled at the reference. _Snow White_ was pretty apt a comparison in her situation. Winter puns aside, she felt nearly see through next to Tony's tanned skin. Not to mention that she had nothing to wear in the tower, and since asking Natasha seemed obtrusive she'd slept in her dark military grade clothing.

Steve hadn't been okay with that, though, and had returned in the morning with a white t-shirt that was at least four sizes too large for her, besides being a man's shirt. That wasn't the worst part though. The worst part was how paper white it made her look.

Jamie wondered why she cared. She'd spent over seventy years wearing whatever HYDRA threw at or strapped onto her. Now she was wondering if she was too pale for…oh.

Too pale for Steve's liking.

She scowled subconsciously, and turned her head away from the group to stare out at the street. Luckily her bionic arm was covered by the shirt's long sleeve, so it didn't attract people's attention. Tony did, though, so a few people pointed and stared as they flew by.

Clint was still talking. "…it's a great idea, Tasha!"

"You got this out of _The Hunger Games_, didn't you?" The redhead rolled her eyes skyward. "Typical. Letting you read that series was a _serious _mistake. Main-character-is-an-archer aside, you seem to think it's a cryptic chronicle of your life."

"I think male Katniss has got a point," Tony called from the driver's seat. Bruce was in the passenger seat beside him.

"Point about what?" Jamie asked, her curiosity getting the better of her. Steve looked over, more serious now.

"Something called 'Real or Not Real'," he told her loudly. Jamie tensed at the phrase, hoping it didn't mean what she thought it did. "Put the canopy up Stark. We can't hear a damn thing with all this wind."

"Aw, come on Cap. Then people can't see my awesome." Tony caught Steve's glare in the rearview mirror. "Fine, fine. Talk now, awesome later."The canopy pulled up over their heads, shielding them from the bright sunlight and peering eyes. Jamie immediately felt more comfortable—just before the claustrophobia hit her.

Tony turned the ventilation on after a few moments. "Sheesh, do we have a load of mouth breathers in here or what? Natasha, don't go anywhere near Barton's face. I think something's dead in there."

"There are six people in this car, Tony," Bruce reminded him.

"Yeah, whatever. My point about Barton still stands though."

"Can we get back on topic, please?" Steve demanded. He knew that if they allowed it Tony would go on like this for ages.

"Sure. In short, it's a great way of figuring out which memories she has are from her past, and which ones are HYDRA implants," Clint argued. He looked at Jamie. "Basically the concept is that whenever you think you remember something from your past, you tell it to Mr. Stars and Stripes here, and he tells you if it's 'real' or 'not real'."

"Thanks for that incredibly helpful explanation, birdbrain," Tony said, casting a wry look at the man from under his own dark sunglasses. "I think you've cleared up the _obvious_ aspects of things. Seeing as you've got your hands full, why don't we leave the science to the _educated_, shall we?"

Barton was shooting arrows with his eyes. Jamie could almost see the crosshairs on the back of Tony's head.

"Two harsh insults in a five minute period, Stark," Natasha warned him, patting Clint on the chest in what was almost a soothing way. "That's pushing luck—even for you."

Tony shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm paying for everything. You're all in my car. I say what I want."

"From a scientific standpoint, it may help reverse certain affects of mental trauma," Bruce offered helpfully, trying to redirect. "No one really knows what HYDRA did when brainwashing her. It wasn't just a simple wipe job, obviously; since at some point she woke up believing that she worked for them. So I'd say that anything she remembers from her actual, non-fictitious past that can be verified is a step in the right direction."

"Even if the memory is painful?" Steve asked, hoping it wasn't.

Bruce sighed. "Unfortunately, even then, yes."

Jamie was silent in the dark beside Steve. He couldn't even hear the sound of her breathing, even with his super hearing, which surprised him at first. Then he remembered something. How could he have forgotten, he wondered to himself angrily. It made him furious that he would forget something so important. How _could_ he forget that?

It was then that he realized that that was how Jamie must be feeling, _all the time._

"Bucky, _breathe,_" he said lowly, too low for the others who were arguing amongst themselves about PTSD and Clint's _Hunger Games _obsession to notice. Steve heard a slight hitch from the space beside him, and then after a long moment the sound of her drawing breath. Relief washed over him in a cool wave.

How had he known? Jamie was wondering. She stopped breathing when stressed, yeah. It had been a problem for her in a few instances, when flashbacks of war had come over her during a mission. But over time she'd all but conquered the problem, leading to a nearly flawless performance level. Why was that returning now? Perhaps it had to do with her undoing the effects of her brainwashing. This was the longest she could remember having gone without being wiped while out of cryofreeze.

She was even more surprised when a hand found hers in the darkness, strong fingers weaving through hers and clasping her hand comfortingly. A strange feeling came over her, and she became aware of a slight increase in his pulse. She could feel it beating in his fingers and palm better than his arm. Jamie sincerely hoped that she could manage to keep her own heart-rate steady. Why did she suddenly feel so much more at ease?

Was this the effect Steve used to have on her? If so she could understand why she'd still been friends with that version of him that was so much smaller, way back whenever. It was the feeling, she realized, as the car pulled to a stop in a parking garage: the feeling that everything would be okay, no matter what. She got the feeling that that had been a constant factor in their relationship—one that she was so confident about, she didn't even feel the need to check with him later to verify it.

The hood was removed again, but the enclosed garage was much dimmer and her eyes could tolerate it better. The Avengers piled out of the doors and back of the convertible, Natasha springing out like a cat and Clint not far behind her. Steve climbed over the edge and landed firmly as Tony and Banner opened their doors and got out.

Steve held out his arms to her, offering to lift her out. "Coming, Buck?"

Jamie looked at his eyes, shining at her expectantly. Every time he looked at her was like he was looking at his favorite thing in the world. Sometimes his gaze had guilt in it, but overall it was filled with wonder and excitement. It made her feel guilty herself, and something else. Something that made her head buzz and her stomach flop and her good hand go slightly numb and tingly.

Instead of vaulting herself over the edge of the car like she easily could have done, Jamie climbed to her feet and allowed Steve to haul her out. He held her firmly by the waist, even after she was safely on the asphalt. "You used to make me happy," Jamie asked him quietly. "Real or not real?"

A smile crept softly onto Steve's lips. "Real," he told her.

"And did I make you happy?"

"More than you knew." He lifted her bowed head with a finger under her chin. "That's something that hasn't changed."

And for the first time in a very long time, Bucky smiled back at him—albeit very faintly.

Clint was on the opposite side of the car, holding his clutched hands to his mouth and making a sort of excited noise filled with garbled words. 'Peeta' and 'Katniss' were the only fragments the others caught, but it was all they needed to understand: Hawkeye was full on fanboying.

Perhaps Steve was blond and strong and kind. Perhaps Jamie _was_ slightly distant, and haunted, and had blue eyes and a long braid of dark hair extending down her back. But those were no reason for this kind of behavior, and Natasha knew it. That was why seconds later, Clint received a harsh upsmack that literally echoed in the parking garage. It also snapped Steve and Jamie out of their little moment.

"OW!" Clint yelped, rubbing his head and giving her an injured look.

"Stop making a fool of yourself," Natasha chided him, arms crossed. "We have a busy day ahead of us—and Jamie doesn't even have a shirt to her name."

Jamie sighed, really wishing she wasn't wearing Steve's shirt and hoping nobody would read into it the wrong way. That would be embarrassing.

Then she wondered why the hell she cared, and wrote it off as nerves. This mission was really beginning to compromise her, in ways she knew she didn't fully understand. Take, for example, this new game of 'Real of Not Real'. It didn't seem half bad, and Bruce's logic had been very persuading.

Jamie was beginning to think she might even _enjoy_ it—if she could remember what enjoying something was.

If it was anything like the strange fluttery feeling in her stomach she got when hand-in-hand with Steve, then it might not be so bad after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**You guys are all awesome! Thank you for your comments, favorites and follows. They literally make my day—I give a little fist pump with each alert that arrives in my inbox. So just thank you! I hope **_**Little Talks **_**keeps living up to expectations…and my devious plots to give you OTP feels. **

**While I've got you here at my bidding (hehehe), what is this ship's name, technically? For Fem!Bucky/Steve, that is. I'm not sure Stucky works here, what do you think? I felt like a shipname discussion was in order, considering this chapter's song excerpt. Tell me what you guys think! And as usual, feel free to leave ideas for future chapters in the review section. Thanks guys!**

-5. _'Cause though the truth may vary' / 'this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore'_

"Thank god we didn't take Loki with us or you'd be broke, Stark."

This came from Natasha, surprisingly. The entire shopping group had returned and was now sprawled out across the various couches in Tony's penthouse lounge, surrounded by countless bags and boxes. The kitchen wasn't in a much better state, since they'd also done the groceries while out. The cold things had been shoved exhaustedly into the fridge and the rest left out in reckless abandon on every available surface—including appliances.

Jamie and Steve were the last two in from the elevator. Steve had been trying to get her to give up some of the bags so that he could carry them. Jamie wasn't having it and had swatted his hand off twice, before simply raising her bionic hand in warning. Steve had raised an eyebrow, as if asking if she'd really hit him after all she'd already done. Jamie had simply turned away to look forward at the golden elevator doors, refusing to face that idea. Would she dare?

Even she didn't know. She knew she didn't want to hurt Steve, but if it came down to him smothering her with over concern and caution? She _would_ deliver a sharp punch to the arm to drive some sense into him. She was a trained assassin, not a pitiful war torn veteran. Right?

Now she was sitting stiffly in an armchair, waiting to be excused. She did that a lot, as the Winter Soldier. When she wasn't waiting to be excused, she was either on a mission, being briefed/de-briefed or frozen/unfrozen. Life wasn't too spectacular, and she didn't get a whole lot of human interaction that didn't come through active combat, the crosshairs of her scope, or its end product: staring down at her dead target. When in base, she was treated as a thing, barely even a person and certainly not capable of conscious thought. She was a killing machine— nothing more, nothing less.

As it was, she'd just spent a whole day in the company of happy, _living_ people who were very eager to include her and treat her like a human being—even when she drifted off into her thoughts with nothing more but a vacant expression to tell of it.

She felt odd. It had been nice, being around so much energy and happiness. Even the friendly bickering had been refreshing, if not a bit wearying after awhile. And Steve had been practically glued to her side the whole time, helping her with everything he could. Perhaps that was the reason she'd almost hit him in the elevator. While used to having things handed to her, Jamie wasn't used to people handing them _nicely, _or _asking_ what she wanted. Steve seemed unable to be anything except nice with her, always watching her protectively, predicting her moves before she made them and doing everything he could to make her life easier.

It was, quite frankly, weird. But a nice kind of weird…one Jamie thought she might be able to get used to.

Tony was jabbering on, something about dents in his bank accounts, empty store shelves and overcrowded delivery vans. Natasha was making a new record for number of times one could casually roll one's eyes in a three minute period (she had just passed thirteen), and Clint was too busy admiring his new _Mockingjay_ action figures to care what Tony was saying. Bruce was studiously poring over a book on something called 'interplanetary spacial displacement and resonance', while Steve was sorting through the bags and trying to separate his clothes from Jamie's, as they'd gotten packed in together.

He hadn't seen everything she had bought, since he'd been trying to find a decent few shirts to replace the ones he'd lost since the carrier went down. He had a strange habit of loosing shirts in the laundry, and Steve had a nagging suspicion that several of Tony's shop rags resembled something he'd worn at one time or another and then lost without realizing it.

Thankfully, they had been a few of his more retro numbers. Perhaps it had been Tony's way of telling him to get a better sense of style. Getting a better sense of style was actually something Pepper had helped him with, after mentioning something about '50's style bad boys coming back in season'. Since he already had a bike, she'd told him, he was already halfway there. Then she'd helped him shop for an entire new wardrobe, courtesy of Stark Industries.

Tony _loved_ to remind him of that, when he ran out of better quality jibes.

Steve was wishing Pepper had come with them that day. While Jamie's choices in clothing were functional and still flattering (mostly thanks to Natasha's input), he was saddened to find that she hadn't bought herself a single dress. He supposed it was old fashioned of him, and probably a bit selfish, but Jamie had always looked good in dresses, and he'd wanted the delight of seeing her wearing one again. He almost wondered why she _hadn't_ gotten at least one, until the rather obvious reason of _HYDRA_ crossed his mind and his eyes fell on her bionic arm.

He felt like such an idiot in that moment—a selfish idiot to boot. Dresses couldn't really cover that, now could they? That explained the abundance of jackets to go over the tanks and t-shirts. Of course she would feel self-conscious about her arm. What kind of an insensitive dolt wouldn't think of that?

Looking at her now, he could see how uncomfortable she was just being _around _people. Tony _was _being a bit of an ass at the moment, the entire situation was boring and they were all dead tired—even as superheroes. But Jamie's level of discomfort was something else. She looked as though she didn't quite know what to do with herself, or the people around her.

The look was still there half an hour later, when they were all in the kitchen throwing together some kind of lunch before Thor and Loki got back and ate all of the 'good food'. Jamie was perched stiffly on a barstool next to Clint, who was trying to explain the premise of _The Hunger Games _ to her while she watched the food being prepared with a glassed over expression on her face. She nodded now and then at what she figured were appropriate places, all the while watching Steve cooking something on the stove. The sauce in the pot was nauseatingly red, as it only served to remind Jamie of blood and since she had plenty of bloody memories to recall, it wasn't exactly a pleasant experience.

But that wasn't what sprang to her mind. The image that suddenly swam before her eyes was much older than the ones she had been prone to recalling of late.

_There was a woman with pinned up blond hair, standing over an old stove with a little boy, no more than seven—Jamie's mind told her he was seven, so she believed it. They were stirring some kind of sauce in a pot, the little boy looking up at the woman who was undoubtedly his mother with big blue eyes—and then back at Jamie, eyes smiling. _

_Jamie tensed—though not in the memory. In the memory her lips were curling into a smile, while small hands that _must_ have been her own were fisting a threadbare tablecloth, playing with the fringed edges restlessly. Brown hair curled into her eyes and she backhanded it away, if only to keep her eyes on the boy a little longer. __**He's like an angel,**__ she heard herself think—though the voice was that of a child, a little girl. __**So beautiful, and kind, and polite…**_

_Then abruptly his tiny frame wracked with coughs. His mother lifted him away from the stove, carefully. Even though he was seven he didn't look much larger than a five year old—and he was just as small. _

"_Steven dear, you can't stand by the gas burner for so long. It's bad for your asthma," the woman chided softly, sitting the boy down in a chair across from where Jamie had sat. Not that she was sitting now; at the sight of her friend coughing she'd raced for the tap with a glass. Now she was standing concernedly at his side, water at the ready. _

_She could feel the difference in her body size. She couldn't have been more than four foot six—but she had at least a half foot on Steve. Her hair was braided down her back—against her protests, she'd realized. Her mother had made her wear it that way, though she would have preferred it down. _

_After a while, his coughing subsided. His mother, who was rubbing circles on his back, gestured to Jamie. Steve turned in his chair, tiny hands reaching for the glass. Jamie immediately gave it to him, noting the way the glass almost seemed heavy when he held it—and held it with both hands. _

"_Thanks, Bucky," Steve said, his voice slightly raspy. Jamie smiled down at him, her heart hurting a little at the sight of him feeling so terrible yet warming at the nickname. _

"_Have you been able to look into that specialized lung treatment?" Jamie's mother asked. She had long dark hair twisted and pinned up on her head. She was slightly better dressed than Steve's mother, and seemed to be slightly taller. But she was kind, self-assured but not pompous. She was strong, Jamie realized, and beautiful. Jamie wanted to be just like her when she grew up. _

_Steve's mother was blonde like him and slender (due to her diabetes) but not quite as frail. She sighed, and her eyes trailed over her son, filled with guilt and remorse. "It's too expensive," she confessed quietly."I can't afford it, and I'm already working double shifts at the hospital."_

_Jamie's mother reached a hand across the table and gently set it on her friend's. "Sarah, all you have to do is say the word," she told her softly. "With Jamie having gotten her scholarship for school, we'll have less to pay in bills this year. George and I can surely manage to—"_

"_Winnie." Steve's mother's voice was gentle, but firm. "I can't ask that of you. Besides, this treatment is experimental." She brushed a few strands of hair from Steve's face. "What if something went wrong? I couldn't bear to lose…" Her voice cracked, and she looked at her friend with watering eyes. "Not after Joseph." _

_Jamie's mother gave her friend's hand a light squeeze. "I understand."_

_But Jamie didn't. If it were possible that something could make Steve better, make him bigger and stronger like the other boys, then she would have given her two front teeth to see him have it—and that was something, considering that her two front teeth had only recently finished growing in._

_She didn't understand why Steve's mother was so afraid of letting him have a chance. _

_Were the odds really that bad that he would make it?_

Jamie was sitting stiffly on her stool, clutching the counter's edge with the fingertips of both hands. Her regular hand hadn't done any damage; her fingers were a ghostly white from calloused tips to her first knuckle. But her bionic fingers were making small craters in the granite, small rings of dust circling each digit.

The rest of the team was staring at her in alarm. So far she'd been exceptionally normal all day, with understandable bouts of vacancy or depression. But this… this was something else. Her eyes were dilating strangely, and her face twitching at she stared straight forward.

"Bucky," Steve tried, slowly making his way around the island and beside her stool. "Bucky, it's just a memory. It's okay, you're safe here."

_She was thirteen. Nothing had changed. Steve was still so much smaller and weaker than the other boys, and there was nothing Jamie could do about it. One day mid November, she found Steve walking home from school with several boys following him and taunting him. _

_She was already so angry that day. Her mind had been on Steve for most of the week, after he'd given them all a good scare with his anemia. He had passed out in the middle of the library with her, and had been in the hospital for three days. Luckily Sarah had been there to tend to him, since it was her shift. She'd been horribly concerned for him, but almost more so for Jamie, who had begun to feel like every time Steve had a health complication it was somehow her fault. _

_She'd told Jamie that these things happened, just like they always did, because Steve's body sometimes didn't work the way it should have. It wasn't her fault that they happened, or her job to keep them from happening. But that had only made Jamie angrier. All it meant to her was that something was wrong with Steve, and she wasn't strong enough to fix it. _

"_Aw come on, Shrimpy! Don't wanna fight?" One threw a round stone at Steve's back. It nearly sent him tumbling forward onto his knees, but he stumbled a few step before regaining his footing and rounding on the boys, putting up two little fists._

"_I don't want you guys to get hurt," he told them with a bit of sass that would have made Jamie laugh, if the circumstances weren't so dire. _

_Then the biggest boy threw a punch that landed right in Steve's nose. Jamie could practically hear it breaking…or was that her heart?_

"_HEY!" she screamed, finally finding her voice. "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" It was so alarmingly full of rage that the boys actually jumped and looked over at her, eyes guilty and rather frightened. Then they landed on Jamie in her plaid skirt and knee socks, and they began to sneer. _

"_What are you gonna do, missy?" The biggest taunted, wiping his own intact nose with the back of his hand. He shrugged to readjust his jacket. On the ground, Steve was still clutching his nose—the blood now all over his hand and sleeve as he sat amidst his ruined sketchbooks. "Your little boyfriend too weak to fight his own battles?" _

_In that moment, Jamie saw red. _

_The next thing she knew, five minutes had gone by and her mother was pulling her off the boy. She was sobbing and screaming and yelling at him, while he was bawling his eyes out, his face a sodden red mess. She'd broken his nose as well, and even in her crazed adrenaline fueled state Jamie took the moment to admire the justice in the situation. __**A nose for a nose,**_ _she thought bitterly, even though she knew it was a misconstrued version of the biblical term. _

_Luckily, the fight had been right outside of her house. Her mother dragged her inside, still kicking and screaming, while her father had helped bring Steve and his things in. Neither parent bothered to help the three bullies in the street—the two smaller ones both sporting black eyes and scratched faces, while the biggest one was in a dismal state and blubbering all over the pavement. _

_By the time her mother could finally calm her down, she was wheezing and her face was beet red. "Steve," she sobbed, as her mother draped a cool wet cloth over the back of her neck. She gasped, then new sobs shook her in her chair. _

"Steve," Jamie whispered, her eyes clouding.

"_I'm right here, Bucky," came Steve's voice from her left. Steve was sitting on the opposite side of the table, a dishtowel to his face. His voice was nasally, but oddly calming. His eyes met her bloodshot ones, and a wave of relief coursed through her to see that he was still conscious, and not losing too much blood._

"I'm right here, Bucky." Jamie whirled on her stool, ignoring the flinch that the others made at her sudden movement. Steve remained still behind her, as her eyes locked on his. Her lips trembled, and she seemed to be fighting off tears.

On an impulse (and in spite of the fact that it may have been a really _bad _idea,) Steve reached out and took her by the crooks of her elbows, trying to draw her out of the memory with physical touch. She tensed, but then her shoulders rolled out and relaxed, if only for the slightest of moments. Steve could have sworn that for just a second her eyes had had the old warmth and life they'd used to.

Then it was gone, and the normal, post-Winter Soldier Jamie was back, eyes cautious and wary of him, muscles tense as if ready to spring any second. The tears had absolutely vanished, but she was panting, as if the experience had been physically exerting.

The same eyes. Steve had the same eyes, even after he finally had what she'd always wanted for him: strength, health, vitality. His eyes never changed, and that was the thing that was haunting her most, in both her memories and her current reality. His eyes were what proved that those memories were true. No amount of HYDRA brainwashing could recreate those windows, windows to the most beautiful soul she had ever had the privilege of knowing.

Not that she would tell him that. She could barely admit it to herself. In fact, any kind of interaction with him seemed forced, and awkward. She wished it wasn't. She wished things could go unspoken between them like they used to.

Little did she know that Steve was thinking much the same thing.

Taking one look at Steve's hands on her arms Jamie brushed him off, swiveling away from him and back to the alarmed team members in the kitchen.

"Sorry," she said, simply and quietly. She used her regular hand to brush off the granite dust from the counter. The others started to relax.

"Hey, no big deal," Tony said, taking a sip of his now cold coffee. "I never liked that counter much anyway. Thank goodness Bruce here didn't Hulk-out on us, because then I'd have more than just a countertop to worry about."

Bruce's eyes were fading out from a green tint back to their usual brown—a strange phenomenon, Jamie thought. He seemed to be struggling with himself rather than being concerned if she was about to kill him with a steak knife—which was totally within her abilities. Jamie was exceptionally handy with a knife.

"Don't worry," Clint assured her, though he did still look wary of her. "I'll get you to watch the movies eventually, mark my words." Seeing the others dubious looks, Clint insisted," No really, mark them. With a little mental post-it note that says: _Lessons in Fangirling from Clint._ It's going to happen. No doubts here."

"Hey look guys!" Tony began clapping slowly, nodding his head. "Male Katniss has _finally _admitted it's _fangirling._ Win for the rest of the sane world!"

Clint crossed his arms defensively. "Whatever."

A vein throbbed in Jamie's forehead—she could feel it. Luckily it was behind her bangs so no one _saw_ it.

Except for the Black Widow, whom Jamie was beginning to think had x-ray vision. Natasha look one look at her and her eyes narrowed. "I think I should show you the gym, Barnes."

It was officially the best thing Jamie had heard all day.

"I'd appreciate that."


	6. Chapter 6

**You people are awesome! Thank you for all the new follows and favorites. Here's a new chapter of **_**Little Talks **_**for you lovelies!**

**WARNING: if you haven't been inflicted with OTP feels yet, brace yourselves. I gave myself the feels with this one.**

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-6. _'There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back'/ 'Well tell her that I miss our Little Talks'_

"_Mission report."_

_Jamie stared off into the distance, reliving memories that made no sense to her. The déjà vu was strong—though she couldn't remember when, she knew this had happened before and it would probably happen again. She didn't know what she had remembered before, though, and she couldn't make sense of what she was remembering now._

_The Man stood before her, grimmer than she'd ever seen him before. Then again, she didn't usually fail her missions as horribly as she'd failed this one—in fact, as a rule she didn't fail missions __**at all.**_

"_Mission report, __**now."**_

_Perhaps, then, his gravity was called for. She just didn't care—not even when he slapped her full across the face._

_She barely even registered the blow, only turning back to the Man with hair limp in her face and a confused expression. _

"_The man on the bridge," Jamie said slowly, looking at the Man in a combination of befuddlement and suspicion. "Who was he?"_

_The man gritted his teeth at this, as if deciding whether or not to actually tell her. "You met him earlier this week on another assignment."_

_Jamie was flooded yet again with memories she didn't understand and an uncertain feeling took her. "I knew him," she declared, even though she was sure of no such thing._

_The Man pulled up a chair, examining her levelly. Then he began to speak, in an almost reassuring tone. It made Jamie feel even more distant, unsure. "Your work has been a gift to mankind," he told her. "You shaped the century." Was that a good thing? She had no idea, not anymore. "And I need you to do it one more time."_

_Jamie clenched her teeth. This was the part when he tried to convince her that her latest target's death was going to be as noble as the two dozen or so before it. She hated this part—that much she knew._

"_Society's at a tipping point between order and chaos," he explained. "And tomorrow morning, we're going to give it a push."_

_This wasn't good enough, Jamie realized. It didn't justify killing him, that man, not when…_

"_But if you don't do your part, I can't do mine. And HYDRA can't give the world the freedom it deserves."_

_She looked up at him, eyes resolute. "But…__**I knew him,"**__ she protested yet again._

_The Man nodded, as if settling something in his mind. "Prep her," he announced, rising from his chair. A nauseating feeling overcame her, realizing what she'd just brought on. She grimaced in gruesome anticipation. _

"_She's been out of cryofreeze too long," one of the attendants interjected timidly. _

_The Man stared back at her mercilessly. "Then wipe her, and start over."_

_The clamps went on her arms, and she barely noticed. She was too busy trying not to let tears leak out of her eyes as the mouthpiece was placed into her mouth. She stared at the Man in hatred. It was always him, she realized, as the machine was lowered around her head. He was the one who kept her memories from her. _

_Then the pain began, and she forgot the revelation. _

Until now.

Jamie was wailing on one of what Natasha had called "Steve's bags". It felt good, using her muscles after a full day of only light walking. Not to mention it had been weeks since she'd ran any form of mission. If this were normal circumstance—well, normal for _her—_she would have been frozen then, in a blank unconsciousness that was maybe unwanted, but not as difficult to handle as all of the mew ideas and memories she had to deal with while being very much awake.

Not to mention, she just really needed to punch the crap out of something. Emotions were something she wasn't good at handling—they were usually taken from her before she really had a chance to feel them. Aggression, sure. Intent to kill, routinely. Mostly, she kept her mind on the target and not on the person behind it. That was something she found she couldn't do here, which was making her concept of considering her time in the Tower as her latest mission very difficult.

These people had faces, names, personalities. They were also very dangerous, should she cross them, and she was comforted by the fact that if she _were_ to have a psychotic break, they _would_ take her down before she hurt any innocent people. They all were trying to help her adjust to her new environment, just like Steve had asked.

She wasn't even going to think about Steve right now. That was just too much to handle.

She could feel her regular arm tiring, but still she kept beating the bag. Her mind kept flashing back to strange memories she didn't understand, of strange faces under her fist and then, finally, Steve's.

God, couldn't she just block him out of her thoughts for awhile?

It had been at least three days since she'd seen Steve; three days since he'd been called away for some kind of task and wasn't anywhere near Avengers Tower. In fact, Jamie overheard something that lead her to believe he had gone back to DC. To her surprise, the distance only fueled her mind's eagerness to remember just who he really was—perhaps so that she might know him better when he returned.

She spent a good deal of time in the gym. While Jamie had seen other team members sparring with each other, nobody seemed to want to engage her in hand-to-hand—understandable, if a bit disappointing. Only a bit though, because Jamie wasn't entirely sure if she could handle herself in combat; she wasn't sure of a lot of her physical limits yet. HYDRA had done things to enhance and prolong her stamina; now, Jamie was trying to sort out which things were permanent and which would fade with time.

So far, her hearing had deteriorated (but only a little) and her upper body mobility seemed slightly impaired. Her reflexes were fast, but there was a nagging pain in her torso that was unexplainable. She'd gone to Tony about it, but his thing was technology and he'd sent her to Bruce.

Bruce had been puzzled by it as well, but had also placed the blame on HYDRA's experimentation. Even after Jamie's memories returned, he'd told her, they might never know the full extent of what HYDRA had done to her body.

She had so many questions. After so long of being unable to ask anything of her own interest, she wanted to ask someone about things that actually mattered to her.

"That's a mean upper cut-strike combo." Natasha's eerily calm voice hummed in the room, drawing Jamie's attention away from the punching bag. It had split where she'd laid her last blow, a long gash striping the leather, pale sand pouring from the hole onto the gym floor with a dry rattling sound.

"It usually does the trick," Jamie replied, only faintly winded.

"And you don't bind your hands?"

"Why would I?"

Natasha shrugged. "People do, to protect their knuckles."

Jamie observed both sets of her knuckles ruefully. "Don't see the need." Her metal hand was untouched; her good hand was also unscathed, if not a little red and inflamed.

The redhead said nothing, but came around the bag with her arms crossed. "It's been a few days. I imagine you have a lot of questions, especially with Rogers being…" she hesitated, carefully choosing the correct word. "In the field."

Jamie stared at her a long moment. "I do," she replied, then stared down at the growing pile of sand on the floor. "Honestly, I don't even know where to begin." She sighed. "And I don't know why you are asking. I know that you are highly skilled, Agent Romanoff. I only know your name vaguely from my past missions, but I know that you are the Black Widow. I know that we encountered one another at some point, and I know it wasn't pretty because my mission was a success."

At each of these things, Natasha nodded as if accepting them as fact. "True. All of those, true. But there's something else you _couldn't_ know—not from HYDRA's records, nor SHIELD's." She leaned against the row of lockers that lined the nearest wall, looking at Jamie with something borderline…understanding?

"I was in a similar circumstance before," she told the brunette. "Before SHIELD, before Clint or any of this" –she gestured around at the room—"I was just like you. Alone. Confused. Being used by an organization larger than myself in a way so that I only ever saw a little, tiny sliver of the whole picture—of what was really going on. I did my job without asking questions, because they wouldn't be answered even if I did."

Jamie nodded.

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You don't remember me," she said slowly. "We didn't just encounter each other during a mission. You trained me, years ago, back when I was with the KGB. The Winter Soldier. You were legendary to us. None of us could _ever _aspire to your level of greatness—not even those of us in the Widow Program."

For a moment Jamie thought that the woman's tone was becoming resentful. But Natasha just smiled grimly.

"No, I don't hate you for it. You were just like the rest of us, doing what you were trained to do. It's not as if it were your fault that you were better at it then we were. It being _everything,_ of course."

"If I remember correctly, you _definitely_ improved," Jamie added dryly. Natasha actually looked pleased at this.

"I'll take that as close to a compliment as I'm going to get."

"So…why are you helping me now? If I was one of the people who made you like this." Jamie slapped a piece of tape over the gash in the bag and stopped the trickle of grains from adding to the mess on the floor.

"Because: you took me under your wing. Your training is what set me above the others, put _me _on track as the next Widow. Without your help, I never would have learned to survive in that world. I never would have made it to where I am today." She looked around the room again. "And, believe it or not, I _like_ where I am today. I think with time, some answers and this ragtag team of ours, you just might too."

"What about Steve."

Natasha tipped her head from side to side, considering this. "Maybe a little bonding time with your old pre-war buddy could do some good. When you're ready for it, that is."

"And you?" By now Jamie had left off her routine, and was sitting on a bench unbraiding her sweaty hair. Given that her hair could get caught in the chinks of her bionic arm she always left it braided—and only used her good hand to do so. She ran a hand through her hair at the scalp, shaking out long dark tresses that didn't see the light often enough.

Natasha came over quietly, and sat down beside her on the left. "Well," she began, turning a hesitant Jamie by the metal shoulder, "I think that I owe you." Much to Jamie's surprise, the assassin began gathering up the other assassin's hair, dividing it into three parts and combing through it—where the comb had come from was a total mystery.

"Even after I shot you?"

"_Through_ me, technically," Natasha corrected casually. She laughed slightly. "And given the way you treated Steve when you saw him again, I'd think you were just saying 'hello'." Jamie cringed at this. "Don't feel bad, I'm not usually very diplomatic when meeting old associates either."

"So, you're helping me because a), you feel you owe me a twisted kind of debt, and b), we have a similar and remotely intertwined past?"

"I like to call it 'an abundance of common ground'."

It was astonishing how delicately Natasha could braid hair. Jamie was used to uncomfortable tugs and snags from her own fingers catching the wrong strands; with two hands it was much easier, she assumed. Necessity was the mother of invention (as attested to by her own braiding skills) but normalcy was nice. Not that Jamie thought normalcy was in her near future, with the metal arm attached to the left side of her body.

But Natasha was surprisingly kind, in spite of everything she'd gone through. Was it possible that Jamie could become like her—or at least, her own form of almost normal—if she let herself adjust?

"I can live with that."

"Good." With Jamie's hair now up in a lovely French braid, Natasha pulled back and rested her hands in her knees. "So. What do you want to know first?"

"What do you have to tell?"

Natasha actually grinned. "I'm a spy, Barnes. I know _everything._"

The corners of Jamie's mouth twitched. "Then what do you think I should know first?"

"_That's_ a good place to start. Let's talk about this whole 'reintegrating into society' thing, shall we?"

This could be a good way to keep Steve off of her mind.

)( )( )(

Meanwhile in DC, Steve was staring up at the giant Smithsonian exhibit of a much less cynical, distant and washed-out version of his best friend.

The Jamie Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes pictured on the clear glass display was the one Steve had been missing since that moment on the train. That Jamie Barnes was the reason he'd made it through his childhood, was the reason he'd wanted to fight in the first place. Was the reason he'd accepted the serum, and was the reason he'd gone behind enemy lines to save the 107th in the first place. She was his beginning, and his end. When he'd lost her, a crucial part of his heart had shut down. He couldn't bring himself to let her go—and Peggy had seen it.

Jamie's death had wounded him deeply—no, deeply wasn't even strong enough of a term. It had _crushed _him. Only after she was gone did he realize why he couldn't put his whole heart into forming a relationship with Peggy: his heart already belonged to someone else.

He'd realized it then. But it was Peggy who had forced him to face it, and ended whatever existed between them other than friendship.

"_It wasn't your fault." The look on his face was enough to make anyone's heart break. In that moment Peggy almost hated Barnes for making Steve hurt so badly—but then, how could she hate a woman who had died not realizing that the man she loved had loved her dearly in return?_

"_Did you read the report?" Steve asked, eyes trained on his glass. _

"_Yes."_

"_Then you know that isn't true." His voice cracked. Drunk or not, he was teetering on the delicate edge of a breakdown. She could see his hands clenching and unclenching as if he wanted nothing more than to destroy his surroundings—perhaps he already had somewhat. It was impossible to tell with the level of disarray the room was already in; if the cuts and scrapes on his hands said anything, though…._

"_You did everything you could," Peggy told him carefully. _

"_I never should have let her—" Steve's words caught in his throat and he shook his head. "I shouldn't have let her join the team. It was too dangerous."_

"_Barnes was a __**damn**_ _good soldier, and a better woman," Peggy insisted. "It was as much her right to join up as it was yours—or mine."_

_Steve snorted softly. "I thought you two didn't even get along."_

_This was true. She and Barnes had never got along. Barnes was just so enviably close to Steve, effortlessly from years of friendship. But that was all: friendship. On the flip side, it seemed, Barnes had been jealous of the way Steve looked at Peggy. In the end they had established some kind of mutual appreciation, but that was it. Neither had ever become closer than tolerated acquaintances at best. _

"_Not especially. But one cannot avoid the facts." Peggy looked at him long and hard. "Steve," she said softly. Steve bit his lip and looked up at her with watering blue eyes. "Steve I know this hurts. But you have to respect her choice." _

"_I don't want to," Steve gritted out, taking jagged breaths of air as he struggled to keep what little composure he still had. "I would have rather kept her here, safe…or even have fallen from that train myself. I could have taken the fall, Bucky…" He clenched the glass so hard a fracture ran up the side. "Bucky couldn't."_

_It was the saddest thing Peggy had had the misfortune of seeing. And the worst part was, Steve himself didn't understand __**why **__he was taking it so hard. Peggy could see it. She had always seen it, and it was why she'd initially hated Barnes so very much. _

"_I know, that there's no good time to tell you this," she began. Steve looked up at her, eyes bloodshot._

"_What is it?" _

"_Barnes…" she could barely force the words from her mouth, but she knew what she had to do. She'd already made up her mind before Steve left on the last mission—she just hadn't had the chance to tell him. "Barnes. You loved her."_

"_Peggy…"_

"_Don't…argue, Steve. I can see it even if you can't. It only makes sense, really."_

"_She was my friend—my __**best**__ friend. It still makes sense if I—" _

"_Steve!" Peggy huffed, half impatiently, half to fight back her own tears. Now was not the time to cry. "You risked your life, against __**all**_ _**odds,**__ when it was probable that she was already dead, to bring her back. You would do it __**all over again now,**_ _if it were possible; only someone with a __**great**__ deal of love could do that." She was laughing slightly at his resistance, at the irony of it all. "She couldn't see that you cared either, Steve. But she __**still **__sacrificed herself to—"_

"_I ALWAYS CARED ABOUT BUCKY!" Steve yelled, shattering the glass on the table and lacerating his hand rather badly in the process. Peggy jumped slightly in her chair. "She knew that." Tears rolled down his cheeks uncontrollably. "She always knew that. She…she was my f-friend…"_

_He was still conflicted, couldn't see past his grief to accept it. For a moment she wondered if pressing it on him was the right thing to do; but she knew he needed to come to terms with it if he didn't want to drive himself mad. So Agent Carter decided to play hard ball._

"_Was she?" Peggy crossed her arms, red lips pursed in a line. "Look around, Steve. Look at this place. You came here, to a bombed out section of London during a blackout, to be by yourself. Not that you don't __**normally**__ go looking for trouble, but that's another thing entirely." Her voice was rising in pitch, becoming firmer and more insistent."If she were just a friend, then why didn't you come to me?" _

_Steve opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated. _

"_Because it would have been awkward, wouldn't it?" Peggy gave him a knowing look. "If she were 'just' a friend, you would have had no problem coming to me, talking to me. Even if you said nothing, we could have just sat. Together." Steve looked down at his bloodied hands in silence. _

Peggy was right, Steve thought, watching the film of her with his mind on the memory of her words. Hell, Peggy was always right. It was Steve who always had trouble understanding what was right in front of his nose—and sometimes, buried in his heart. That night Peggy hadn't just pushed past physical rubble. She'd excavated through the ruin of his emotions and found the cause of the collapse: not just the loss of Bucky, but the loss of a love that never was.

The worst part was that after seventy plus years, she was still right.

"_But that's not what you did. You were just deprived of the one person in the __**world **__who really mattered to you, Steve. And I think that deep down, perhaps where you don't even realize it…if you can't have her, than you don't want anybody."_

After so long, he finally had Jamie back, but she was so different from the woman she'd been that he felt further from her than ever. The only thing wrong with that was it didn't change anything. He _still _didn't want anyone else, he mused, staring up at the moving images on screen. Him in his uniform with his arm slung around her shoulder, Bucky shaking her head bemusedly and smiling brilliantly for the camera, eyes shining at him. God, they did look perfect together. How had they both missed it?

And so Steve decided that his first mission upon returning to Avengers Tower was to make Jamie smile—truly smile.

The rest would come in bits and pieces, like her memory.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for the long delay in updating! This week has been really hectic and whatnot. Thanks again to all new followers and favorites, and the reviewers. Comments mean a lot, and encourage me to keep writing this. Please leave one if this story tickles your fancy.**

**Also: I've made a Pinterest board entitled **_**Little Talks Inspiration **_** for those of you who care to see a collection of Steve/Bucky stuff. There is some amazing Fem!Bucky and general Bucky feels in there, so go and check it out if you like! If you do a Google search for **_**little talks inspiration**_** it's like the seventh suggestion down…the only Pinterest one with wintersoldier/ bucky barnes tags ;)**

**I am not responsible for my attempted Russian. That is all.**

**Now. Let's see if we can have some more feels, shall we?**

-7. _'Soon it will be over and buried with our past'/ 'we used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of love'_

The rest of the Avengers were startled to see how quickly Natasha got through to Jamie in Steve's absence. In a matter of three days they were hanging about the tower together, talking in Russian animatedly and sometimes with a great deal of seriousness. Natasha was actually willing to spar with her as well, which was an interesting thing for the others to watch. Most of them hadn't had a chance to see the Winter Soldier in action, so witnessing Natasha fight with someone as equally calculated, efficient and deadly was a sort of horrifying treat.

The only thing that kept them from worrying that the two women were going to kill each other was the fact that about seventy percent of the time they were being completely harmless—and even girly—with each other. Natasha seemed to enjoy braiding Jamie's hair a lot, and used all different kinds and styles as something to keep her hands busy when they were talking.

Jamie, for her part, didn't mind. It had always been men who had braided her hair when she was still with HYDRA; in particular she remembered who had been most recently the one to that particular task: an especially sadistic bastard called Rumlow, who seemed to get some sort of kick out of the process. She'd hated Rumlow, and got the feeling that if she'd ever been less strong (or even left alone in the room with him) he might have tried something. He was at least one person she wouldn't mind killing, even now.

But Natasha was like a sort of sister to her, in a strange 'we are assassins together' sort of way. Speaking Russian had come as a welcome change; for some reason Jamie seemed to be able to communicate more easily in that language. In English every word seemed painful, a deliberate choice to be made—and that she didn't feel much like making.

As she got used to conversing again, though, words started coming to Jamie more easily. At meals with the rest of the Tower's residents she found herself able to reply to basic questions and respond to certain requests— a great improvement, since at first 'pass the potatoes' had seemed like too much to handle.

Another development that had occurred since Steve had been gone was Tony's daily examinations of her bionic arm. He was intensely curious as to what 'made it tick', as he put it, so for a good hour and a half every day she was hooked up to varying types of machinery and instruments.

Additionally, Jamie had gone to Bruce of her own accord (which had frightened him a little at first) and explained in as few words as possible the effects she was experiencing—lack of stamina, that nagging pain in her torso, pinpricks of darkness in her vision. Bruce had asked if he could measure the biological aspect of things, to search for the ways she had been enhanced and make sure her condition could be held and the side effects removed, which she had immediately agreed to.

So she was hooked to an exorbitant amount of devices and gauges and monitors, all displaying her information for the two scientists to observe and evaluate. The situation was familiar to Jamie, and while part of her felt panicky and like she wanted to bust out of the lab as soon as possible, another part was resigned and even comfortable with the sterile surroundings. It was what she was most used to, after all, and had in the past afforded her the closest thing she'd experienced to peace and quiet—when she wasn't being tortured, that is.

This laboratory was_ actually_ peaceful, with no torture machines looming over her head or sitting ominously in a gloomy corner. Instead, she was sitting in a relatively comfortable kind of chair, reading silently while the machines around her made monotonous beeping sounds. Clint had forced the book into her hands after lunch the day before, but she hadn't actually tried to read it until that morning.

_The Hunger Games._ So this was the origin of his obscenely hyper behavior. Jamie was a quick reader, and before long she saw what had drawn the archer in—but what was more, she found _herself _drawn in.

As emotionally distant as she found herself, she could understand the feelings that the main character experienced. The girl's protectiveness of her younger sibling especially reminded Jamie of the few memories she'd recovered of her life before the war. She'd felt much the same way about Steve.

When she got to the part about the 'reaping', she was finally reminded of why she'd enlisted in the first place.

_It was the summer of '43 when Jamie had overheard two soldiers on leave talking about the Draft. She'd heard them say (half in jest, half seriously) that the Army would soon be calling up women and the disabled to fight from the lack of young men who hadn't yet enlisted. Jamie had known how badly Steve wanted to join up—they'd spent hours talking about it in their younger years, before all of their parents had died and the story of Steve's father was still legendary to them. She knew he'd been trying to enlist, and hated it because he had been keeping it from her. _

'_Soon they'll be taking women and the disabled', she'd thought, mulling the idea over in her head. If they'd take women first, she'd jump in front of that train before it could hit Steve. Besides, she always could hold her own in a fight. _

_Jamie had been astonished when they actually had accepted her—even more so when, after basic training, they'd assigned her as a sergeant. And then she'd had to tell Steve. _

"_Hey, Buck!" Steve had said brightly, when she'd stepped off the bus from camp. Then his eyes had traveled over her clothes, her dog tags, and her military grade duffel, and his face had tightened. "Buck?" he'd asked, his voice lower and much more serious. _

_Jamie had looked up at him on the stairs of his apartment, and her heart had sunk. "Steve," she'd said. "We need to talk."_

_He'd understood, without a doubt—not once did he question __**why**__ she had done what she'd done. But he was angry about it. God, he was so angry about it. They'd both argued and yelled and __**screamed**__ late into the night, long after the streetlights had come on and the neighbor's kids had gone to bed. _

_By that time their arguing had died down from screaming to talking and finally to an exhausted, numb, and almost desperate silence. She could feel that there were things he wanted to say but wasn't, and she was holding in her fair share as well. _

_Jamie had wished that they were just children still, that they could come home when it got dark to their parents and curl up in bed safely, without fear. _

_But they couldn't. She and Steve hadn't had that luxury for a long time, Steve longer than her. They were really all they had of value in the world, and they were going to be taken away from each other. That was what she would miss the most, Jamie had realized that night. Him. Just him, plain and simple. _

_They were curled up under a blanket on the old sagging couch in Steve's drafty apartment, which no matter how many times they patched holes and stuffed rags under the doors and into the cracks of the windows remained drafty. But they __**were**__ safe, and warm. Steve's legs were all tangled up with hers, their bodies clinging to each other. His fingers were combing gently through her long dark hair as she sat with her face buried silently in his bony shoulder, just memorizing him for the cold, lonely nights ahead._

"_Will you miss me?" she'd asked him softly, barely above a breath. Steve's arms had tightened ever so slightly, and he'd buried his face in her hair._

"_I'm already missing you, Bucky." His voice caught on almost every word, and it made Jamie cry to hear it. She bit her lip, holding in the sob that threatened to wrench from her throat. _

_That was the best thing about her and Steve. They fought sometimes, just like they had that night—and yes, sometimes it was really bad. But neither of them ever __**left.**__ That was the worst part of everything now, because that was ultimately what she was doing: leaving Steve behind—and __**that**__was something she'd swore she'd never do._

_Jamie had never hated the stupid war more than at that moment._

Remembering it now brought a strange, unsettled feeling to Jamie's gut. She'd held onto that memory, she'd realized, throughout the entire war. It had kept her going, because even when Steve was right there with her on the battlefield or in camp it could never be like it had been at home—just the two of them, creating a place of safety away from all of the chaos and danger of the world. When she'd fallen from the train, it had been that memory that had flashed before her eyes, burned at her heart. It was all worth it, because she—

"Джейми?" _Jamie?_ Natasha was looking at her in concern, crouched in front of her chair and already reaching for her hip pocket where she stored a small knife. Just in case.

"Xорошо." _Fine. _She wasn't, but Natasha already knew that. Jamie shakily drew air, cursing how her memory flashes caused her to forget breathing. She looked up to see Tony and Bruce watching her concernedly, Tony with a slight fidget.

"Oh sure, speak Russian so we have no idea what the hell is going on. You know, I'm really getting tired of that. Bruce, maybe we need to learn Russian."

"Everyone deserves their privacy, Tony." Bruce was, as usual, the voice of reason. Jamie really didn't understand why Loki was so edgy around him, or why everyone got so anxious when he got upset. He was quite possibly the quietest, most mild mannered man she'd ever met—or at least _remembered _meeting_._

"I just said 'fine'," Jamie clarified quietly. She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her shirt, cursing the climate controlled building that made her feel so stifled, trapped.

"Sure. Sure you did. Is Clint's book giving you boredom seizures? I can get you a Starkpad, it's much more fun…" Tony was adjusting some hologram display settings, retracting machinery from around her. "Luckily for you, we're done for today."

Natasha knew what to do by now. "Grab your coat," she said in English, taking the book out of Jamie's hands and closing it with a snap. "I think you could use some air."

So Jamie had practically fled the lab to slip into her jacket and head outside with Romanoff, eager to shake off the clingy feeling in her chest—the one that made her want to see Steve so badly her teeth practically ached.

)( )( )(

It was an uneventful walk, but refreshing. No one bothered the two women, despite it being a very late hour in New York City and they were hardly sticking to the lighter areas. Something about walking in the shadows made Jamie feel more secure; like other people couldn't see her and silently judge her based on appearance or her past. They couldn't know about her past, but the guilt still affected her.

One of the nice things about Natasha was that while they could and often did talk, they didn't have to. She never pressed Jamie to talk if she didn't feel like it, and that night she didn't. So they just walked in silence, occasionally sitting on a bench or the edge of a foot bridge to stare out at the city. They had done this before, and Jamie had commented on how much it had changed over the years. At the moment she couldn't find anything important to add.

Her head was pounding. A strange lingering pressure was sitting behind her eyes, and her hand had an odd ghosted sensation across the fingertips, like something was just eluding her reach. Her mind was stuck on that memory of her and Steve practically melded into one being, the way their breathing and heartbeat had synchronized and nothing else had existed.

She couldn't remember feeling that way, with anyone else before or since. Maybe it was true what everyone kept telling her then; maybe she and Steve really had been best friends. It explained why she hadn't had any friends since. After something that deep, something that intense….

But then, she didn't see the other Tower residents acting that way with each other, and they were all relatively good friends. Tony and Bruce were especially close, as were Thor and Loki (though sometimes grudgingly on Loki's part.) Perhaps it was because they were guy friends, not the odd pair she and Steve must have been.

At any rate it was giving her a major headache, and not even the air was helping. With a subtle nod of the head she gave Natasha the go ahead for their return route, and they set off for the tower. All Jamie wanted at the moment was one of the sedative pills Bruce had concocted to help her sleep (or maybe even two) and to just not have to be conscious on any level. After all, most of her dreams ended up being nightmares.

It was when they were approaching the tower parking garage that the noise of a motorcycle caught her attention. To her mild surprise it got passed the security checkpoint and pulled into the garage, its driver parking it in a particular stall away from Tony's carefully organized stash of cars. And then she realized who it was.

Steve.

Her heartrate accelerated, slamming out a double tempo that couldn't be good for her headache. She quickened her pace to the elevator, Natasha following behind her smoothly, without missing a beat.

"Not feeling up to saying hello yet?" the redhead asked calmly once the elevator doors had closed.

"_Not quite,"_ Jamie replied in Russian. _"I'm just not there yet. I want to, but…."_

A long pause hung between them.

"_It's always going to be hard, Jamie," _Natasha told her. _"Facing it—facing __**him**__, after all this time and circumstance. But you have to at least try. If not for your sake, than his." _ She stared at Jamie intently. _"You didn't see him, after the Bridge. His mind was fixed on finding you. After the Potomac, on getting you back. You mean __**so**__ much to him."_

"_But I…" _Jamie swallowed, unsure how to deal with all of the emotion. _"I __**hurt**__ him. Not just physically, but mentally. Emotionally. How can I expect that to just be forgiven? Forgotten? Natalia, you of all people know that that kind of thing doesn't just go away."_

"_For you? With him? It does." _Natasha looked forward as the doors to her floor slid open. _"And it always will. Don't make the mistake of letting that get away from you." _She stepped out of the elevator, without giving Jamie a backward glance. "See you later," she said in English, and then the doors slid closed, leaving Jamie alone with her thoughts.

Or so she thought. After a long moment's pause JARVIS spoke up. "Miss Barnes, may I be of assistance?"

Jamie looked up at the ceiling thoughtfully. The Avengers (minus Steve) had taken the time to explain what JARVIS was in relative detail, so Jamie was at least tolerant of the AI's presence and didn't feel the need to tear apart rooms to destroy cameras and speakers. It was nothing like the diabolical computerized brain of her creator, Doctor Zola, that she'd been forced to communicate with on occasion. So she asked a question.

"JARVIS."

"Yes, Miss Barnes?"

She hesitated a moment. "From a strictly mechanical viewpoint, is Natasha's logic sound?"

The AI considered this. "As I am a computer with no form of corporeal emotion, I can assure you that the premise of her statement is true—mainly due to the fact that Master Stark has installed a Russian translator in my protocols. Beyond that, I am afraid I can offer no further insight."

"Right. Thanks." Jamie saw the light for the basement garage level light up on the wall panel, and felt a rush of panic. She swore under her breath. "JARVIS, can you override that and take me to my floor first?"

"Certainly." The light went off with a ding, and the button for the seventeenth floor lit up. Jamie let out her breath and ran her good hand through the top of her hair, through her loosening braid. Perhaps braiding it a few times would take her mind off of things—or she could finish reading. She got the feeling Clint was going to come after her the next morning to barrage her with questions, and being prepared was a part of any mission, however trivial.

Anyway, she thought, actually nervous as she felt the elevator descend a few floors, she couldn't handle seeing Steve yet. She needed to get her head screwed on straight.

But when she was safely on her floor and about to set foot in her room, she made the mistake of turning to see where Steve was going. Perhaps he would go the main living area on the top floor, or his rooms to drop off his bags. Maybe he'd want to see Natasha, or Tony, or Bruce or one of the others.

She was definitely surprised (and a little alarmed) when the numbers lit up seventeen, and stayed lit up. The doors slid open, Steve's eyes fell on her—and they didn't light up like they usually did, or even fill with concern. They stared at her, full of tension and distress, and for a horrifyingly long moment in time Jamie considered the idea that he'd finally decided her wrongs were too great to be forgiven; that she was beyond that kind of redemption.

"Hey," she tried, almost tremulously, and inwardly cursed her wavering voice. She sounded on the brink of tears—but to be completely brutally honest, she almost _did _feel like crying. And she couldn't understand that, because she was too numb to feel like crying…or was she?

Steve didn't say anything. Instead he came walking silently out of the elevator with smooth, deft movements, and wrapped his arms tightly around Jamie, burying his nose in her hair.

Jamie was frozen, her mind replaying her most precious memory over and over until it was blurring from rapidity, fading from details to an overall feeling of security. She felt her eyes pricking, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She closed her eyes and relaxed, just trying the feeling out. It felt right, somehow. Her hand moved up his back and wrapped around him in return, her face pressed against his t-shirt and a bit of his leather jacket. Steve squeezed her a little more tightly.

"I missed you," he told her, and another tear slipped down her cheek—this one, of her own volition.

"I missed you too," Jamie replied, her voice barely audible. But she knew from the kiss that Steve planted in her hairline that he had heard her.

Maybe she didn't need to distract herself from her emotions. After all, some things were better faced head on.

Some things, at least. Others, like the way her head was buzzing, her heart felt like it was burning with warmth and her stomach was fluttering in a strange way, were best left unaddressed.

Weren't they?


End file.
